


Flufftober 2019 - Crazy In Love

by megzseattle



Series: The Serpent and the Seagull Outtakes [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Comforting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Flufftober, Flufftober 2019, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Jealous Aziraphale, M/M, Protective Crowley, Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2020-12-02 02:35:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 34,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20972462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megzseattle/pseuds/megzseattle
Summary: Light, fluffy (and short!) scenes between my favorite domestic partners as part of Tumblr's Flufftober 2019! Set in universe for the Serpent and the Seagull series, giving you a look at other moments that happen behind the scenes of the main story. Can also be read standalone!





	1. Prompt: Dancing

**Author's Note:**

> I decided a few days late to participate in Flufftober 2019 by writing a short scene for each of this month's 31 prompts! 
> 
> I wasn't going to put this in the series, but I find as I'm writing that I'm filling in holes in the Serpent and the Seagull universe's stories, so I'm adding it in now! Perhaps Frederick will even make an appearance soon. 
> 
> Prompt list, if you want to take a look, is [here.](https://giucorreias.tumblr.com/post/187561859169/another-year-another-flufftober-since-last-time) I'm following it only loosely and skipping around a bit, but determined to post one a day.

Crowley sat at his desk making a list on a sheet of paper. He did not, as a rule, enjoy writing. Writing was the angel’s thing – writing and reading and filling pages with intricate copperplate handwriting. Crowley was more of the doodling sort, really, when absolutely forced to pick up a pen. Snakes both venomous and poisonous, planet-destroying comets, stick figures of murderous intent, deadly explosions -- he could doodle with the best of them. But, he thought with a sigh, needs must. 

Fred Astaire, he wrote down carefully. Then he clicked the top of his pen on and off compulsively for approximately one hundred and twelve times, before leaning down to laboriously add to his list. 

George Balanchine, he wrote.

A few hundred more clicks. 

Bob Fosse? 

He scribbled that one out. 

“What’re you doing, dear?” Aziraphale said, wandering rather suddenly into the room. 

“Nothing!” Crowley snapped, crumpling the paper up and pocketing the pen as quickly as he could. He considered, for a brief moment, whether to just eat the offending paper and remove it from the universe entirely, but he settled for subtly dropping it on the floor and kicking it under the table, while giving Aziraphale a big, distracting grin. 

Unfortunately, it didn’t work. 

Aziraphale, always something of a bastard at the most inopportune moment, followed the path of the paper with his eyes, then leaned in to give Crowley a rather large kiss that left him momentarily muzzy and distracted. And _then_, sensing his opportunity, he dove for the paper and crowed happily when he came away with it before the demon could even react. 

“So, what have we here, love?” he asked teasingly. He ignored Crowley’s protests and smoothed out the paper on the table. “It’s – “ he paused, confused. “It’s a list of dancers?” 

Crowley glared. “Yeah, so? Anything wrong with that?” 

Aziraphale blinked and gave him an extra patient smile. “Any reason you’re making a list of dancers?”

Crowley mumbled something incoherent and studied his fingernails intently. 

Aziraphale sat down on the table right in front of him. “What was that again?”

Crowley blushed about four shades of red at once. “I was going to do some research. On, you know, how to dance. Not like – not like I dance now, not like a snake who’s only recently been issued legs. Just, you know, more dapper.”

“But why?”

“Wantedtotakeyoudancingwhyisthataproblem?” Crowley said all in one breath. He looked, Aziraphale thought, small and brittle and like being laughed at at this moment might literally discorporate him. Not that he had any desire to laugh. Not with the current swell of warmth that was drifting up from his toes to his chest. Not with the immense wave of love that was about to knock him, literally, off the table. 

“Mmmmm, my dear,” he said, “you don’t need lessons for that. You’re a wonderful dancer.” 

Aziraphale held a hand out to Crowley, who took it hesitantly, and then pulled the recalcitrant demon to his feet. One firm snap of his fingers later and a soft, slow ballad from the 1930s started to drift through Crowley’s nonexistent speakers and fill the room with warm sounds. The angel pulled Crowley towards him and wrapped his arms around his neck. 

“You see, dear?” he said with a warm smile. “You just put them here – “ he positioned both of Crowley’s hands on his waist – “and then you pull me close –” Crowley did so, compliant and still a little stunned-looking – “and then we, well we just sort of move to the music.” 

“Ngk – “ Crowley said, before shaking his head as if to dislodge the consonants from his throat. “It’s nice, I mean.” he croaked out. 

Aziraphale let out a soft chuckle and pulled him closer, leaning his head on Crowley’s shoulder. 

“It’s perfect,” he agreed.


	2. Prompt: Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale watch the snow falling in London and reminisce about some surprising events at London's 1684 frost fair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interested in the frost fairs? You can see a [variety of artwork produced after the 1684 frost fairs here](https://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/frost-fair-of-london).  
__

“Do you remember the frost fair?” Aziraphale asked one night as they were cozied up on the couch, enjoying the fire and watching large flakes of snow drift down outside the shop windows.

“Which one?” Crowley said. “I went to several.” 

“Oh, 1684, of course,” Aziraphale said. “The first one was definitely the best.”

“Certainly the most debauched,” Crowley added with a grin. “Of course I remember. I helped instigate the whole thing.” 

London had had a number of frost fairs during the 17th-19th centuries, when a small ice age brought increasingly frigid winters and the Thames took to freezing in huge, thick, choppy blocks of ice, meters thick. To banish the chill and celebrate, Londoners quickly took to hosting absurd celebrations where entire circuses were set up on the ice. The main trade was alcohol, and entertainments varied from riding horse-drawn sleds on the frozen river, bear baiting, and for some reason, throwing things at chickens. Even respectable people got completely soused and did highly disreputable things. 

“Of course you did,” Aziraphale sniffed. “Convincing a large population to go out and get inebriated and act as wild as possible without breaking the ice! Do you know how many frost babies were born the following autumn?” 

“Well you know me, can’t pass up a good temptation to inspire the good people of London to lust.” The demon took a deep drink of the delicious Barolo they were sharing and then refilled his glass with a snap. 

Aziraphale made a noncommittal hum in his throat and wrapped an arm tighter around the demon. He glanced out the window again where snow was curling lazily through the orange glow of the street lamps. “It’s really coming down out there,” he said. “I don’t think you’re going to be driving anywhere soon.”

“That’s ok,” Crowley replied, “I’m happy right here.” 

They were silent for a while, just watching the immense, fluffy flakes starting to drift up in piles against the bottom of the windowsills. 

“Six thousand,” Aziraphale said, apropos of nothing a little later. 

Crowley blinked, confused. “Six thousand what?”

“Six thousand babies. Frost babies. You inspired _six thousand_ couples to copulate, under cover of darkness, on the ice, in the months that frost fair ran.” 

Crowley choked on his wine. “That many? Really?”

"Yes indeed!”

Crowley tutted. “You’d think I’d have gotten a commendation for that. That’s a lot of babies born out of wedlock, even for a demon.”

He sensed rather than saw Aziraphale blush. 

“Angel?” he asked suspiciously. “What is it?”

“Oh nothing my dear!” The angel was crap at trying to be evasive. The sudden raise of pitch in his voice was a dead giveaway. “Nothing at all!”

Crowley cranked around from his current position lying with his back to Aziraphale’s stomach so he could see him more clearly. “What are you acting all guilty about all of a sudden?” 

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Well, uh, I actually got the commendation related to that.” 

Crowley looked gobsmacked. “_You_ got it?? What? How?”

“Well, you see,” the angel said, “I actually used a little divine inspiration to encourage each and every one of those couples to go out and immediately get married. So there was actually a huge increase in holy, wedded matrimony followed by legitimate childbirth, and, uh, you see… ended up being a win for my side, in the end.” 

He did not tell Crowley that he himself had actually set up a marriage chapel on the ice and personally married nearly fifteen hundred couples himself, usually the morning after whatever drunken bacchanal they’d taken part in. It had been exhausting work just miracling up the proper marriage certificates. He ended up funneling the rest into nearby churches. 

Crowley frowned. “You subverted my temptation into a holy fucking miracle?”

“YES I did,” the angel said, looking a little too pleased with himself about the whole thing, despite his embarrassment. 

“You’re insufferable,” Crowley said. “Absolutely insufferable.” He leaned in and kissed him, but he made sure to make it a completely grumpy kiss.

“YES I am,” Aziraphale beamed, kissing him back. 

“Oh shut up,” Crowley snapped, and kissed him again for good measure.


	3. Prompt: Blankets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley learns to adjust to a surprising trait of his angel.

Learning to live together could be hard. Even after six thousand years of knowing each other, Crowley thought, you don’t really know someone until you share a home with them. 

For example, he thought grumpily, he’d never have realized in any other way that fluffy, innocent Aziraphale, who had never made much of a habit of sleeping before in the prior six millenia, was an unredeemable blanket hog. 

Crowley had been delighted to introduce the angel to the act of sleeping. Sleeping with company was always more fun – not to mention warmer – than sleeping alone, and sleeping with soft, sweet, loving Aziraphale was best of all. The angel had originally just kept him company at night, reading on the other side of the mattress while the demon slept, but after a while, he started to curl up next to Crowley at night and watch him fall asleep, petting him and whispering sweet nothings. 

And then one fateful night, Crowley had awoken freezing cold at three a.m. and discovered Aziraphale fast asleep and rolled up like a human burrito in every single one of the blankets. 

It was, in a word, adorable, and Crowley stopped to memorize how the angel looked with just the top of his head poking out of the thick, tartan comforter and a silly, contented, peaceful look on his face. 

It was less adorable when it began to be a nightly occurrence. Falling asleep with the angel might be lovely, but waking up hypothermic to find the angel in his usual tight cocoon became less and less fun. 

Aziraphale, to his credit, apologized mightily each time and swore to do better, but somehow, his instinct when falling unconscious was to swaddle himself entirely, as if he were hiding from predators, as if the monster under the bed might eat any part of him that was left unwrapped. Crowley nudged him, stole the blankets back, bribed him, argued with him, outright yelled at him once or twice (for which he felt terribly guilty), and ultimately decided he was just going to have to learn to adapt. 

“I’m so sorry, my dear,” Aziraphale said the next evening as they fell onto the mattress. “Would you like me to sleep downstairs? I can’t seem to manage to share the covers, I’m at a complete loss as to why.” 

“What?” Crowley sputtered. “Sleep downstairs? What – why – that is the STUPIDEST – “ 

He stopped when he saw how crestfallen Azriaphale looked, and reached over to ruffle his hair affectionately. 

“What I mean is,” he said, calming himself considerably, “of COURSE I don’t want you to sleep on the couch. I’ve had six thousand years of sleeping without you – I don’t want to do it for one more night.”

Aziraphale gave him a faint smile at that. “But I’ll steal the covers again and you’ll be cold!”

Crowley grinned. “S’ok, angel,” he said. “I have a plan.”

They fell asleep entwined together, a slightly snakey big spoon and a somewhat feathery little spoon, and sure enough, three hours later, Crowley awoke nearly frozen and without a stitch of bedding to his name. He paused to take a good look at the angel, aglow in the dim light from the streetlamp coming through the window. Just his hair and eyes were visible above the soft down comforter he’d rolled up in, and in the wintery light his hair looked like spun silver. Crowley traced his eyebrows, counted each eyelash, and felt an absurd and devastating fondness in his chest. It left a ridiculous smile on his face that he was glad the angel wasn’t able to see. 

He heaved a deep sigh and rolled over towards the edge of the bed, feeling around on the floor just underneath the bed (where the monsters would be, he thought to himself, if you believed in that sort of thing), and pulled out the second eiderdown comforter he’d hidden there earlier. This one had the advantage of being heavier, warmer down than Aziraphale’s usual – the kind you could survive Antarctica in, he thought. And it had the additional advantage of NOT being tartan. Crowley pulled it over and around himself, burrowed in and wrapped the edges around himself similarly to how Aziraphale was arranged, and closed his eyes.

If you can’t beat ‘em, he thought, you might as well adapt.


	4. Prompt: Candles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale loves Halloween; Crowley loves to make his angel smile.

It was a fact universally acknowledged that demons hated Halloween – it was downright insulting, all those kids running around dressed up as red-faced demons with their ridiculous horns and their plastic pitchforks, and the cute little ghosts. Real ghosts weren’t cute, they were bloody horrifying. It was a day when most actual demons preferred to hole up in Hell and do something productive, like pull the wings off flies and drink antifreeze until they passed out. 

Angels, however, tended to enjoy Halloween, and, to Crowley’s mind, one angel in particular was the epitome of this tacky, cheesy holiday. Aziraphale enjoyed every second of it, from the decorating to the silly costumes to the handing out candy to any child intrepid enough to knock on the door of that strange bookseller who anchored the corner of the block. 

This year, however, Aziraphale was at a bit of a loss. Crowley had forbidden him to have candles any more after the shop burned down, and having already disrespected that command once with dire results, he didn’t dare do it again. Still, he had to admit that it just wasn’t the same without candles to put inside his carved pumpkins. 

However, he had no desire to restart the particular fight that sneaking candles into the shop again would cause, so he tried to think creatively. 

He ended up using a little bit of his own heavenly glow – carefully siphoned off and balled up and placed inside each of the four pumpkins he’d carved and placed around the shop – but the energy depletion from that was significant. Still, needs must, and he left it in place to show Crowley that night. 

“You look tired,” the demon said on coming in from whatever business he’d been attending to around the neighborhood. “What have you been doing?” 

“Oh, just decorating!” Aziraphale said. He glanced outside to make sure it had gotten adequately dark, then ushered Crowley over to a chair set facing out of his office towards the center of the shop. “Now watch!” he commanded. 

Aziraphale snapped and all the lights went off in the shop, leaving a single glowing jackolantern at each of the four cardinal points in the middle of the store. He’d carved them into the most horrifying faces he could think of (with a little magical help) and placed each of them on a plinth from which another statue had recently been removed. 

It didn’t flicker like candlelight, but it did create lovely and ominous pools of golden light and shadows. 

Crowley whistled appreciatively. “Wow, angel,” he said. “Those are really good! Did you make all those today?” 

Aziraphale nodded, leaning a bit on the back of Crowley’s chair as his vision swam. “Yes indeed! Quite fierce, aren’t they?”

Crowley took another look. “Oh my lord, is that Hastur’s face on that one?” he said, pointing to the western plinth.

Aziraphale grinned. “And look –“ he pointed south. “That one’s Gabriel.”

Crowley threw back his head and laughed. “You’re such a bastard, angel. I love you.” 

Aziraphale took a step around the chair to hug Crowley back and stumbled a little, landing heavily on one knee on the floor. The lights flipped back on in the shop and he felt two strong arms catch him and right him carefully, and worried gold eyes assessing him. 

“What’s wrong, angel?” Crowley said, guiding him down into the chair. He crouched in front of him and looked him in the eyes. “Are you injured? Ill?”

Aziraphale shook his head a little. “No, I’m just – a little fatigued, is all. Used some of my essence to light up the pumpkins and it’s taking a surprising amount of effort to keep it all separated and lit.” 

Crowley goggled at him. “You did WHAT?”

“Well,” Aziraphale said carefully, “I would normally use candles… but…” 

Crowley groaned. “You’re telling me you actually siphoned off four little balls of your inner essence – essentially split four small pieces off your actual soul – and are using it to light up your Halloween decorations? Of all the stupid –” He paused and ran a hand over his face. 

Aziraphale looked stubborn. “I can do it.”

“Can and should are two different things, angel. How long have they been burning?”

“About five hours,” the angel admitted. 

“Pull them back,” Crowley snapped. “Right now. That is the most ridiculous waste of ethereal matter and energy that I’ve ever heard of.” 

Aziraphale sighed, not really having the strength to argue right now, but he did wave a hand tiredly in the air and four small balls of light came flying back to him and were absorbed straight into his chest. 

“Oh that does feel better,” he said, rolling his shoulders in relief. He took a quick look at Crowley, assessing. “Don’t be cross, dear, please. I was just trying to adhere to our agreement.”

Crowley frowned at him. “In a stupid way.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Perhaps,” he agreed. “But honestly, have you seen the monstrous alternative?” He walked over to the desk and pulled a small packet out of a drawer. He tossed it at Crowley. 

Crowley caught it in one hand and examined its contents. Inside he found small, battery-operated LED candles, each the size of a tea light. 

“LED candles? You’re up in arms about LED candles?” 

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” Aziraphale huffed. “Fake candles? I know I’m not the biggest fan of modern technology to begin with, but you have to admit that these things are a – are a bloody travesty!” 

Crowley paused in surprise to hear the angel swearing. He almost never did. He had to admit, though, that the pretend candles were rather pathetic. The demon walked over and placed one in each of the pumpkins, turned them on, and flicked the lights off again. A patchy, weak glow emanated from each of them, and he had to admit the result was simply sad. 

Aziraphale stared at them, crestfallen. “Woo,” he said, his voice flat. “Spooky.”

Crowley folded his arms across his chest and stared at his angel, taking in his slumped shoulders and his complete lack of enthusiasm, and although he was trying to be stern, he felt an absurd flash of love and fondness for his ridiculous angel. He took a moment to decide if he was being subtly manipulated, and decided he was not. Aziraphale wasn’t asking him for anything, and he didn’t get the feeling he had set this scenario up with any hidden agenda. He was simply trying to do the right thing. Sweet, innocent little bastard. 

“All right, all right,” Crowley sighed. “I’m willing to compromise with you.” 

Aziraphale frowned and looked up, clearly confused. 

Crowley made a snapping, pulling motion from the ground up and materialized four candles in mason jars. “You can use these. Just for Halloween.”

Aziraphale lit up like a kid who just got a king sized candy bar during trick or treat. “Really, my dear?” 

“Only inside the pumpkins, and they stay in the jars.” Crowley warned.

“Of course, of course!” Aziraphale jumped up and went to start placing each jar, wiggling happily. 

“And never unattended,” Crowley said, sternly. 

“Undoubtedly, my dear!” Aziraphale said, finishing up his ministrations on the last pumpkin. 

Crowley couldn’t keep the sappy grin off his face as the angel set to work lighting up each candle. It was so easy to delight Aziraphale; he was just so damn appreciative. Crowley had long ago realized that he was, effectively, completely wrapped around the angel's little finger, unable to deny him nearly anything in his hunger for those happy smiles the angel offered him in return for any kindness. He was doomed to perform acts of service, completely of his own free will, just because of how it warmed him to see the angel light up like a neon sign. He was, possibly, the worst demon in the history of the world.

Aziraphale stood up, wiping his hands off, and flicked the lights off. The flickering, golden glow lit up both of their faces with stripes of light and shadow. 

“Ohhhhhh,” Aziraphale breathed. “That’s so much better!” He turned and tackled the demon with a startlingly enthusiastic hug. “Thank you my dear!” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Crowley said, embarrassed. “You’re welcome. Now, got any candy around here? Let’s get high on sugar.” 

The angel grinned and took his hand to lead the way to this year’s hidden candy stash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Hawkwind and Zeckarin, who helped me get over the hump of figuring out what to do with this prompt!
> 
> This story refers rather heavily to another one I've published here - By Candlelight. If you'd like to know what the history behind this issue is, go [read it here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19288120).


	5. Prompt: Wet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale gets caught in a storm.

Crowley was sitting in the flat over the shop reading a women’s fashion magazine when he heard the sound of a torrential rain beginning. London was, in general, a rainy city, but usually in a drizzly, foggy sort of way that any ethereal being with half a brain could easily ward off. This, however, was a pounding-on-the-rooftops deluge, almost biblical in its fury, and if he wasn’t mistaken he thought he could hear the sounds of hailstones hitting the glass panels of the oculus too. He made his way down to the shop to take a look and see if the glass needed a subtle miracle to protect it. 

“Aziraphale, do you hear that hail?” he called as he came down the steps. He peered up at the dome and the darkened evening sky beyond it. “Do you think the glass is okay?”

Silence. 

Crowley frowned and looked around. The angel was out? In this? He hoped he had the presence of mind to take an umbrella. The demon considered using a minor miracle to locate him and bring him one, but decided that might be a trifle overbearing – the angel was, after all, six thousand years old and could probably be relied upon to take care of himself. Instead he focused on the dome and spent a little demonic energy reinforcing it from the rattling hail popping off of it like popcorn. 

Then he sat down on the couch and fretted a little bit about where in the devil the angel was, pondered sending him one or a dozen text messages, and ultimately decided to fidget and worry instead. 

He didn’t have long to wait – within fifteen minutes he heard the front door burst open and Aziraphale rushed in with a swirl of water that soaked the edge of the front rug and slammed the door into the wall behind him. Crowley hopped up and helped him get the door situated and then stepped back to look at his love. 

Aziraphale stood on the front doormat, not even wearing an overcoat, rivulets of water running down his arms and onto the floor. His sodden jacket dripped loudly onto the floor and his usual ebullient curls were plastered all over his face. He looked like nothing so much as a drowned rat. 

“No umbrella?” Crowley said. “Angel, you’ll catch your death.” 

“Immortal being, remember?” Aziraphale said, shaking his hair out like an overbred Collie and trying to act insouciant. “I’m fine. I wasn’t that far away, so I just ran for it.”

The effect was somewhat depleted when he sneezed, suddenly and dramatically. Crowley also noted that his teeth were chattering.

Crowley clucked his tongue and materialized two huge, thick towels. He peeled off the angel’s sodden jacket and wrapped him firmly in one of the towels, then used the other to siphon some of the water out of his hair, all the while guiding him over to the fireplace, where a large and cheery fire was suddenly burning.

“You know,” Crowley chided gently, “you could use a miracle to keep yourself dry, when you get caught in the rain.”

“I used it to keep the hailstones off of me,” Aziraphale admitted. “Those things hurt! Didn’t figure a little rain would do me any harm.” He frowned as a thought occurred to him. “Not sure about the damage to my jacket, though! Oh my, I do hope my dry cleaner can fix it! Velveteen isn’t really supposed to get wet. What was I thinking?” 

He wrung his hands for a moment in agony over his antique jacket, and then was surprised to find himself sneezing again, several times in rapid succession.

“Oh sure, because the damage to your coat matters more than the damage to _you_,” Crowley said in exasperation. He pressed a hand to the angel’s forehead. “Are you sick?”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Aziraphale said. “Can angels even get colds?” 

The demon shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”

“I never have before.”

“Well maybe now that we’re not completely angelic or demonic, we’ve picked up some more human traits,” the demon mused. “Adam might not have reset your immune system exactly right when he popped you out of Madam Tracy.”

Aziraphale looked suitably taken aback by that thought. "Well that's a bit... distasteful," he said primly. 

“Either way, I’m getting you some tea. And soup. And maybe a mustard plaster.” Crowley paused for a moment. “What exactly is a mustard plaster, by the way, do you even know? I know you’re supposed to do something with it when someone has a cold. Do I just take a jar of mustard, and – and – plaster it on you?”

Aziraphale laughed. “That won’t be necessary, my dear -- I think mustard plasters are rather old fashioned in this day and age. But I won’t say no to the tea and the soup! That would be delightful, thank you!”

Crowley bundled him up in blankets as close to the fire as possible and went off to the kitchen to see what he could doctor up. If he did spend a few moments while the soup was heating up experimenting with a jar of fine, French Dijon mustard and his own chest, he would never admit it.


	6. Prompt: Road Trip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An angel and a demon decide to hit the road for a day.

“Let’s go somewhere today, angel!” Crowley said one morning as they sipped their tea. “I feel like driving.” 

Aziraphale smiled. “Sounds fun,” he said. “What did you have in mind?”

“Maybe Wales?” 

“That’s kind of a long way.” 

“Ohhhhh cmon,” Crowley exhorted. “It’s only three hours or so. Less, the way I drive. We can pop off now and be back by midnight. Or we can stay the night and come back tomorrow.” 

“Very well,” Aziraphale said, seeing the demon’s heart was set on it. “Give me a bit to get a few things together. Perhaps a picnic lunch?”

“We could pick it up along the way, too, angel,” Crowley said with a shrug. “You don’t have to.”

“No, no, I insist!” the angel said, firmly. “It’s so much more fun to do it yourself!”

Crowley sighed and sat back on the couch and began steeling himself for the patience he knew would be required. Aziraphale had never heard of a quick exit. First, he had to make the tea to fill the best thermos that would be required for the morning portion of the drive. Then he had to make a different tea to fill the second-best thermos for tea that would be nice with lunch. Then he had to miracle up just the right bread and meats and spreads and painstakingly assemble all the sandwiches. Then he had to agonize over which kind of biscuits they should have with them, deciding in the end that they needed one type in the car for quick snacking and two in the picnic basket. Then he had to decide what types of cheeses would work best with the sandwiches. 

By the time he got to figuring out wine pairings, a good three quarters of an hour had gone by. 

“Angelllllll,” Crowley whined. “Come onnnnn, I want to get going early.” 

“But it _is_ early, my dear! It’s not even 9am.” Aziraphale tutted cheerfully. “And you want everything to be right, don’t you?”

“Oh, _yes_, angel, of _course_. Wouldn’t do to have the second best _cheese_, wouldn’t do at all.”

Aziraphale snapped a towel at him and went back to his work. Soon enough, he carried a large hamper out and placed it by the front doorway, then added two small tins and one extra thermos on top. Just, you know, in case something should happen to the best thermos or the second best thermos. 

Crowley rolled his eyes and made short work of stowing all of that in the boot. 

“Ready, angel?” he called as he came back inside. 

“Oh yes, dear, nearly!” Aziraphale said. “I just need to find the right blanket.” 

Crowley sighed and snapped his fingers, apparating a perfectly serviceable blanket into his hands. “Got one!” he announced. 

Aziraphale wandered over to look and wrinkled his nose. “No, that won’t do at all – too scratchy, and it’s really difficult to get it clean if it gets grass stains on it. I think the good picnic blanket is up in the flat – hold on just a moment, I’ll be back in a tic.”

And he disappeared. 

Crowley groaned and ran a hand through his hair in frustration. Honest to god, getting the angel out the door was more frustrating than filling out paperwork for Hell. 

Finally, several minutes later, the angel re-entered the room with the proverbial perfect blanket in hand, which he headed out to the car with. Crowley did his best to hurry him along and all but bundled him into the front seat. He’d almost made it around to the driver’s seat before Aziraphale popped back out of the car and onto the pavement. 

“Sorry, my dear, I just forgot one more thing,” he said cheerily, “be back in two shakes!” He disappeared inside the shop before Crowley could even completely formulate a response. The demon lifted his hands in a universal gesture of defeat and leaned heavily against the car, watching the front door. 

Five minutes passed. Six minutes. Seven. 

“All right, that is _enough_,” Crowley growled, stalking into the shop. “What on earth are you doing in here?”

Aziraphale popped out from the back of one of the stacks. “Oh, I have the loveliest book of poems about Wales!” he said happily. “I thought I could read you some of it in the car. I’ve nearly found it! Hang on…” 

Crowley groaned. “You’re an angel. You can just snap your fingers and make whatever book you want appear in your hand, at any point today. Why do you have to find it the hard way, right now?”

“Well of course,” Aziraphale said, “but that’s cheating.” 

The demon fixed him with a look. “If you’re not out front in five minutes,” he said, “I’m going without you.” He stomped back out the front door, allowing it to close a little more loudly than usual behind him. He got into the Bentley and fiddled with the steering wheel while he counted the seconds. 

Four and a half minutes later, a sheepish-looking angel appeared with four volumes in hand and joined him in the car. 

“I couldn’t decide,” he said in response to the demon’s raised eyebrow and pointed look at the number of books he was holding. “So I just brought them all, rather than make you wait any longer.”

Crowley let out a long sigh. “Are you ready now?” 

Aziraphale gave him a sunny and angelic smile that almost made up for the last hour. “Yes indeed! Let’s go!” 

They made fairly good time to the outskirts of London. The angel rolled down the windows and enjoyed the warm breeze and was seemingly enjoying himself when suddenly he gasped loudly enough that Crowley braked unexpectedly. 

“Crowley,” he said, “the tea is in the boot!” 

“Well of course the tea is in the boot. Everything is in the boot. That’s where things go.” 

“Well not everything! One of those thermoses was for the ride up! And the tins were for car snacks. You have to pull over.”

Crowley snapped his finger and all three thermoses appeared in Aziraphale’s lap. “There,” he said curtly. “Tea.” 

“All of the tea!” Aziraphale said weakly. “How nice. You didn’t need to bring all of it, dear. If you’d just pull over for a second, I could sort out what needs to go in the back and what needs to go in the front and we wouldn’t lose hardly any time at –”

“NO!” Crowley shouted, much louder than he meant to. His voice reverberated around the car. “Just let me DRIVE, will you? I just want to get on the road and you are RUINING this for me, angel, with your unending fussiness! Can’t you just SIT THERE AND BE STILL?”

Aziraphale froze, eyes wide. “My apologies,” he said softly, “I didn’t realize.” And then he very slowly put the thermoses on the floor of the car and turned to look out the window. Crowley watched him in profile and saw him swallow hard and take several deep breaths. 

He didn’t look angry, Crowley thought. He looked like the demon had hurt his feelings. Rather badly. 

The old Crowley would have sulked in silence for the next twenty minutes and then pretended like nothing had happened, and he would have happily accepted it when the angel decided to play along and let it go without further acknowledgment. The Crowley he had been before he spent the last two years loving and living with his angel would have felt entirely justified at snapping at him, and would have mumbled some malarkey to himself about how demons don’t apologize. 

The new Crowley, however, had learned something in the past two years, about how to value and cherish someone. And New Crowley just mostly felt like a heel. 

They drove in silence for several excruciating minutes before Crowley pulled gently over to the side of the road. Aziraphale pasted a rather unconvincing pleasant look on his face and gazed placidly at him as Crowley exited the car and came around to the passenger door. He opened it and held out a hand to the angel, who hesitated for a moment and then took it, stepping out. 

Crowley immediately enveloped the angel in an enormous hug. “’m sorry,” he said. “I’m being awful. You’re not ruining anything, angel.” 

Aziraphale let out a deep breath he appeared to have been holding and buried himself in the hug. “I’m sorry too,” he said. “You’re right, I need to reign it in a little. I’m being entirely too much of a handful today.” 

“Bullocks,” Crowley said softly. “You are not.” 

“Am too,” the angel insisted with the beginnings of a smile.

“Not at all.”

“A bit.”

“Oh, shut up,” Crowley said with a smile. He leaned in and kissed the angel on the forehead. “Now let’s get your snacks sorted out and then let’s put this behind us, okay?” 

Five minutes later, with the angel happily ensconced in the front seat with his second-best thermos and his first choice of poetry and the less-crumbly of the biscuits all arrayed in easy reach, they were back on the road with the open fields before them. 

“So, were you going to read me a poem or what?” Crowley asked teasingly. “You’ve been going on about them all morning.” 

Aziraphale smiled and shook his head, then opened the book in his lap and took a minute to flip through to the perfect starting poem, before his melodious voice began to fill the car with visions of green hills and craggy mountains. Crowley smiled and let his mind drift on Aziraphale’s words, as the road flashed by beneath them. 

It was going to be a lovely day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm supposed to be writing fluff and instead I make them have an argument. But it's a fluffy argument, right? I can't stop myself.


	7. Prompt: Childhood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two drunk, immortal beings concoct a brilliant (in their estimation) scheme to reclaim the childhood they never had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm quite tempted to turn this one into a story in its own right. :)

“What do you suppose it’s like,” Aziraphale asked one evening after they’d each had many too many glasses of wine. “Childhood, I mean.” 

Crowley pursed his lips and tried hard to summon a complete thought. “You know, I’ve never thought about it, really,” he said. “S’not like we ever had one, either of ussss.”

Aziraphale took a deep sip from his glass and leaned back woozily into his side of the couch. “S’right,” the angel said. “Just sprung fully formed from the creator herself, all – all grown up and ready to … to do whatever we were supposed to do back then.” 

“Mostly singing, I think,” Crowley said. “Build things. It’ssss hard to remember.”

“Oh yes, there was rather a large amount of singing,” Aziraphale said, wistful. “Can’t say I enjoyed that all that much, to be honest.” 

“’Ziraphale!” Crowley exclaimed. “You didn’t enjoy – you know, carrying a little harp and ssssssinging in the heavenly choir? Flitting around in a gauzy little gown?” 

Aziraphale made a hand-wavey motion that was meant to squelch this particular line of teasing but ended up looking more like he was conducting some kind of ineffable orchestra, which caused Crowley to dissolve into most undignified giggles. 

“Really, my dear,” Aziraphale said admonishingly. “Anyways, it would’ve been nice to get some time to play board games. Build a fort.”

“Hit things with sticks!” Crowley added excitedly. “Dig up – dig up frogs, maybe. Does one dig up frogs? What are you digging them up from? Muddy little buggers, frogs are. Must be able to dig them up from something.”

Aziraphale nodded sagely. “Undoubtedly. Or we could have had a puppy, perhaps! Maybe even go to school! We missed all the fun.”

Crowley snorted. “Only you would think your life would’ve been better if you’d had the chance to go to primary school, angel.” 

“Oh, you know what I mean,” Aziraphale said, surprised to find he’d drained his glass. He concentrated for a moment and refilled it. The room around him wobbled alarmingly, and he frowned at it sternly until it complied and held still. 

“I have the most brilliant idea, angel!” Crowley said excitedly. “We should make a lissssst! Of all the things we didn’t get to do because we were never children.”

“For what purpose?” Aziraphale asked, beginning to find it just a little hard to keep up. 

“So we could start doing them now!” Crowley sat up excitedly, listed to one side, and straightened himself out determinedly. “It’s like a bucket list but in reverse. Instead of the things we want do before we die, we could write up the things we wish we had done after we were born!”

“Oh my,” Aziraphale said, suddenly intrigued. “That _does_ sound fun!” 

“Fetch a scroll or a parchment or whatever antiquated writing equipment you have around here, angel,” Crowley said. “We have a lot of work to do!”


	8. Prompt: Paint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley isn't above faking a faint to get his way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Yes, I skipped a few - I'm starting late and jumped ahead to today's prompt, but I promise I will catch up on the missing ones!)

“Why do we have to paint the flat, again?” Aziraphale said, his voice almost but not quite a complaint. He looked around the upstairs flat of the shop and didn’t really see what the problem was. The walls were a bright, rich Victorian green almost the exact shade of an emerald, with curly, ornate cream-colored trimwork and the occasional bit of flocked wallpaper in the same color, for contrast. He, personally, thought it was lovely and had never had any desire to change it. 

“Because,” Crowley said, “it’s been regency green for at least two hundred years! It’s so, so bright! And I’m not convinced that this isn’t the type of green that was made from arsenic, angel.” 

Aziraphale frowned. “Oh I really don’t think so,” he said. “We’d have noticed by now if we were being poisoned by the _walls_, wouldn’t we?”

“Immortal beings, remember?” Crowley pointed a finger back and forth between the two of them. “Just because neither of us is vomiting doesn’t mean that it’s not toxic in here.” 

Aziraphale sniffed. “You’re being a tad dramatic, my dear.” 

Crowley tried to tamp it down and found that he just couldn’t. So instead he threw a dramatic back of his hand over his eyes and mimicked fainting backwards onto their bed. “What did you say?” he said breathily. “I think I just got a slight case of the vapors.”

Aziraphale laughed. “All right you ridiculous snake. You want new paint? You can have new paint. Just get up from your fainting couch.” 

Crowley sat up and gave him a very pleased look. “Ah good, now for the fun part. What color? I was personally thinking a nice shade of black.”

“Black!” Aziraphale shrieked. “Have you lost your mind? There’s nothing soothing about a black bedroom!”

“Okay, then, how about gray?”

“Perhaps a nice shade of blue? Blueish gray? Perhaps a grayish lavender?” Aziraphale said, considering. “Oh my, the possibilities are endless! Let’s go down to the paint store and pick up some samples. We’ll have to try them all out at different times of day of course to get the best sense of how it looks in different lighting – ”

Crowley tuned him out somewhere in the midst of that ramble and thought about this whole shopping trip for a moment – paint stores and endless deliberations over paint chips was usually just a little too domestic for him. However, he could sense the opportunity to cause all kinds of mischief and misdirection that would end up with Aziraphale just giving him the perfect, quiet dove gray that he wanted, and he had to admit that watching that play out would probably make for a most entertaining and perhaps lovely day. 

He happily took the angel’s hand and set off with him, already scheming.


	9. Prompt: Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley has a moment of reflection at Newt and Anathema's wedding reception.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've read the Serpent and the Seagull series, you might recognize that we've seen a bit of this particular scene before - this snippet happens just before the events of Chapter 3 of "Have a Little Faith," in which we witness these two driving home from this particular party and then getting engaged. If you'd like to read it, you can find it [here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20287384)

Aziraphale _loved_ parties. He loved getting dressed up a little bit fancier than usual, driving somewhere with a lovely, tingling sense of anticipation, walking into a beautifully lit room full of conversation and music, and having someone hand him a glass of something delicious to drink – hopefully champagne. He loved small trays of nibbles at fancier affairs, he loved congregating in the kitchen at more homespun get togethers, and he loved the overall hub and laughter of being in a room (or a house) full of happy people. 

Crowley viewed parties with a sense of dread. Parties, for him, had nearly always been a work event – there was inevitably some sort of discord he was meant to foment at the important parties across the last few millennia, and even if there wasn’t, a party was just a ready-made breeding ground for mischief. He found it exhausting, being around all those people at once and trying to keep his guard up so that he wouldn’t have to wile or tempt anyone or, even worse, fend off wandering hands. 

In his experience, there were always wandering hands aplenty, at least at the type of party he tended to be invited to. 

Which was why he was surprised, upon reaching a new domestic agreement with his angel, to find that suddenly parties didn’t seem all that bad anymore. 

Parties with Aziraphale were secretly sort of delightful, he found. It was very different to be at a party with your loved one – having someone to wrap their arm around your waist made the whole thing infinitely more tolerable, as did having someone to make snarky jokes to in the corners. It was much, much, less lonely than standing around in dark enclaves waiting for the right moment to perform a temptation. 

“What are you thinking, my dear?” Aziraphale said to him, arriving with two glasses of champagne in hand. It was the evening of Newt and Anathema’s wedding, and Crowley had taken a break from the festivities at Jasmine Cottage to sit down in the grass beneath a large oak tree. The evening was growing late and the lights were twinkling merrily in the trees around the cottage. On the portable dance floor, just a few meters away, the village kids and grownups were dancing merrily and the happy sounds of music and laughter drifted across the yard. Crowley leaned back and looked up at the sky, where a comet suddenly shot across the horizon. 

Crowley reached up to take the offered glass from Aziraphale and patted the grass beside him. “Just thinking that I like parties a lot better with you there than I ever used to.”

Aziraphale smiled and took a moment to miracle a small blanket onto the grass so he wouldn’t muss his gorgeous, ivory suit. “You didn’t like parties before?” he asked. 

“Well, you know,” Crowley said, still star watching. “It’s kind of boring after a while, just tempting and wiling. Never realized how lonely it was, being a demon, before I had you.” 

“What a beautiful sentiment,” Aziraphale said, reaching over to squeeze his hand. “Not the loneliness, I mean, just the fact that it’s better now.” 

“Everything’s better because of you, angel,” Crowley said, softly. 

Aziraphale leaned in to kiss him, and Crowley hummed happily, all too aware of the ring box currently burning a hole in his pocket. 

_Soon,_ he thought. _Very soon._


	10. Prompt: Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hands are the window to the soul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't been completely happy with this one - but I'm going to post it anyways since Hawkwind requested it. :) More coming later today for the prompt i'm currently working on: KITTENS!
> 
> Yes, I'm doing this all out of order if you're following the prompt list, and I'm several days ahead discounting the ones I skipped near the beginning. I'm going to try to catch up on a few of those today too. So stay tuned!

In retrospect, Aziraphale thought, it was the hands that had given away Crowley’s hidden depth of feeling for him, in the centuries before they’d become a couple. When they were dining, somehow Crowley would always end up laying the hand closest to Aziraphale on the tablecloth, just a little farther away from his place setting than was necessary. It was an elegant gesture, Aziraphale thought at the time. It wasn’t until later that he realized how ripe it was with yearning. Crowley was placing his hand, casually and without fanfare, where it could easily be touched, waiting patiently for the day when Aziraphale might be moved to reach out and cover it with his own. 

If it hurt Crowley that he never did, the demon never showed it. Instead, the angel realized, Crowley kept patiently waiting, hand in place, receptive but not pressuring, until the moment on the bus ride back from Tadfield, the night they saved the world, when Aziraphale finally reached back and entwined their fingers together. 

It felt like a miracle that he could now reach out and do so any time that he wanted, without repercussions. 

++

In retrospect, Crowley could see that Aziraphale’s hands told a story of their own. Before they were openly in love, Aziraphale tended to hold his hands tightly clasped against himself when they were together, or to keep them busy – he was always holding a pen, or a book, or a glass. He rarely gestured expansively, and he kept tight control on his limbs. 

Crowley thought this was the angel’s natural reserve or modesty, but after they began dating he was amazed to see how free Aziraphale was with his touches and caresses and affectionate gestures. The angel touched him easily and freely and constantly, and it wasn’t until he noticed that Crowley thought back and realized – Aziraphale had been clasping his hands and keeping them occupied because he didn’t trust himself not to reach for Crowley in a way that made it clear how he felt. 

Crowley made sure to hold Aziraphale’s hand as often as possible, after that, both to make up for lost time and to make the most of the gift he’d waited so long to receive.


	11. Prompt: Underwear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley tries to exert some fashion influence on his angel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this is a bit towards the edge of PG for me. And it certainly would be ripe picking for some artwork. That's all I'm saying. :)

“Aziraphale, what would it take to get you into some knickers from this century?” Crowley asked one morning as the angel was fussing about with his morning dressing rituals. 

“There’s nothing wrong with my choice of knickers,” the angel said, sounding mildly affronted. “It’s not like I’m wearing a one piece or a union suit.”

Crowley rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and walked over to stand behind the angel in the full length mirror where he was examining himself as he buttoned the cuff on his oxford shirt, his white boxer shorts and sock garters proudly arrayed beneath it. “No, that’s true, and what you wear is fine. But– white boxers day in and day out…” Crowley wrapped his arms around him and laid his chin on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I would love to see you in something a little more, well, modern once in a while! Just for fun.” 

Aziraphale lapped up the affection like a sponge but still looked doubtful. “Well, I suppose I could try something new. But honestly I wouldn’t even know where to begin!”

Crowley grinned in a way that was only very slightly hungry-looking. “Leave it to me, angel. I’ll find you some options to try.”

Aziraphale continued to look doubtful but said nothing to discourage him. 

++ 

The next morning, Crowley slid a small black bag into Aziraphale’s hand as he was working his way out from under the covers. 

“What’s this?” Aziraphale said. 

“Knickers,” Crowley said. “Don’t worry, I’ve started conservatively.” 

Aziraphale looked amused and opened the small paper bag to pull out a simple, dark blue pair of boxers in a luxurious silk. 

“Oh, these look nice!” he said, running an appreciative hand over the fabric. He pulled them on and stood in front of the mirror in his undershirt and shorts, examining himself from various angles. 

“What do you think?” he asked, turning around to find the demon staring at him with big, wide eyes. 

“I think you need to come back over here,” Crowley said, simply, and to his delight, the angel complied. 

++

Crowley, pleased with the success of his first gift, decided to slowly ratchet up the stakes and see how far he could get the angel to go before he’d refuse. The next logical step was boxer briefs, and when that went over relatively easily, he moved on to more of a traditional brief, although in a solid black. Aziraphale crinkled his nose at that one but wore them for a day nonetheless, which allowed Crowley to then move on to more of a bikini model, which Aziraphale dutifully put on, modeled, and then discarded in disgust. 

Which led to the final gambit – a very small pair of g-string pants that just barely covered the essential bits, in leopard print. 

“Oh Crowley, for heaven’s sake,” Aziraphale protested when he saw it on his pillow. “I’m not wearing THAT.” 

Crowley pouted. “Why not, angel? It’s just me…” 

Aziraphale huffed. “Because it’s ridiculous. I don’t wear things that small, and I certainly don’t wear leopard print, and I most particularly don’t wear – what is it called, even? An f-stop?”

“A g-string,” Crowley said long-sufferingly, and then gave him his best puppy dog eyes. “Just try them on, angel? Just to show me?” 

Aziraphale sighed. “Ok, fine. But you are going to owe me a big one for this!” 

He swooped up the offending item and disappeared into the bathroom. Where he stayed for a very, very long time. Crowley tried to be patient, until he noticed how fidgety he was getting. Must be time to intervene, he thought. 

“You ok in there?” Crowley called out. 

“I am NOT coming out in these,” Aziraphale said. “I look ridiculous!” 

Crowley laughed softly and wandered over to try the door. He was somewhat surprised to find that it was not locked. He pushed it open slowly, giving Aziraphale plenty of time to object, and walked in to find his angel wrapped in a fluffy bathrobe and looking mortified. 

“Seriously, my dear, what COULD you be thinking?” Aziraphale complained, his cheeks bright red. “These are completely indecent.” 

Crowley sat down on the edge of their enormous bathtub and tried to keep his face neutral. “How about I be the judge of that?” he suggested. “C’mon, you have to show me.”

Aziraphale waved a finger at the demon rather hysterically. “If you laugh at me, I will – I will never – I –”

Crowley shook his head firmly. “I guarantee you, whatever is under there, my last instinct is going to be to laugh.” 

Aziraphale took a deep breath and closed his eyes, dropping the bathrobe to the floor. 

Crowley was surprised to find that you could actually hear the sound of your own brain short circuiting. It made a kind of buzzing sound, like the power outage that crossed London earlier in the summer, or like a doorbell suddenly sputtering out of commission, and was followed by nothing but the sensation of blood pounding in his ears. He felt, rather than saw, his pupils blow wide as he took in the delectable sight that stood in front of him – his soft, creamy, surprisingly muscular angel, standing there in all his glory, arrayed like nothing so much as a total snack.

Holy hell, he thought. You look mouth-watering.

“You’re laughing!” Aziraphale said, eyes still closed. “Are you laughing? Say something!” 

Crowley lunged for him, suddenly overcome with the need to wrap Aziraphale up in his arms and convince him both verbally and physically that he found nothing ridiculous about the situation. 

He resolved to spend at least the next hour reassuring the angel of this. 

++

“I’m not wearing these,” Aziraphale said, a good hour later. “Perhaps for you, once in a while, but they’d drive me insane beneath my clothes. They’re all pokey in the wrong places. And good heavens, is that polyester? I would never!”

Crowley smiled lazily. “That’s fine. Tuck them away somewhere in case I ever want to see them again.” 

Aziraphale leaned over and laid a kiss on Crowley’s nose. “Can we stop with the increasingly ridiculous knickers, now? I think I’ve been quite adventurous enough.” 

“Of course, angel,” Crowley said. “You’ve been more than game.”

“I did rather like the silk ones, though,” the angel admitted. “Feel free to get me a nice assortment of those in my stocking this Christmas!” 

Crowley made a note of it.


	12. Prompt: Popcorn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale tries to make movie night as authentic as possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is set early in their dating relationship, before Crowley has fully moved into the bookshop.

It was movie night, which of course meant spending the evening in Crowley’s flat, where the big screen television and the nearly-miraculous sound system lived. It was Crowley’s turn to pick the movies, which meant horror of course – not for its scare value but because he found Hollywood’s ideas about demons and evil quite humorous. Plus it made up for all of the regency-era romances Aziraphale was always inflicting on him. 

The angel, however, was quite stubbornly insisting that they needed to make popcorn before they started the show. He had even, he claimed, googled how to make it. 

“Just miracle it up,” Crowley said dismissively. “No need to fuss about! Pull us up a big buttered tub of popcorn and let’s get on with fright night feature number one.”

“Oh now, how hard can it possibly be to make popcorn?” Aziraphale said, clucking his tongue. “You set up the movie and I’ll just nip into the kitchen and take care of it. Besides, it tastes better when you make it yourself.”

Aziraphale wandered into Crowley’s modern, steel kitchen and randomly opened cupboards until he found what he was looking for – a large saucepan, and a bit of oil, and then (sheerly because he was expecting it to be there), a jar of popping kernels. 

“Voila!” he announced, primarily to himself, and set about getting everything in place on the stovetop, which gave every indication of never having been used before. He poured a small pool of the oil into the pan, added a rather large amount of kernels, and carefully lit the gas beneath the burner until it was snapping merrily away. 

++

Crowley had just finished cueing up the first of two horror movies he’d chosen and was moving on to fluffing the pillows in such a way to both ensure comfort and also ensure that Aziraphale would be positioned close enough to him for maximum snuggling when he suddenly heard several dozen sharp, gunshot-like sounds from the kitchen followed by an agonized shriek from his angel. 

Without a thought, Crowley jolted up to his feet, every sense on high alert for threat. He grabbed the fireplace poker as a makeshift weapon and dashed to the kitchen where the explosions had continued unabated. 

“Angel! What is it? Who’s in here with –” 

Crowley stopped and took in the sight before him. 

Aziraphale was standing in the middle of the kitchen, waving his arms wildly and clearly trying to protect his face and eyes as fluffy, white kernels of popcorn exploded in all directions. There were drifts of popcorn all over the counter, a large pile building up on the floor, and a few pieces even smoking perilously on the stovetop. It looked like a freakish snow storm had broken out inside his flat. Every few seconds there was another large POPPOPPOP from the pan and additional pieces flew randomly in all directions. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale whimpered. “Make it stop!” He ducked again as another piece came flying directly at his head and clapped both hands over his eyes. 

Crowley bit back a laugh and snapped his fingers, turning off the heat and miracling away whatever was left in the pan. Then he wandered over to circle his angel, examining him for injury or damage. He was, as far as Crowley could tell, completely unharmed. 

“Soooo,” the demon drawled, “what happened here?”

Aziraphale peeked out from between the hands that had been protecting his eyes, and he looked near tears. “I – I – “ He took a deep shuddering breath. “I suspect I was supposed to put a LID on it first!” he moaned. 

Crowley couldn’t help it, he had to laugh. 

“You’re laughing at me!” the angel whined. 

“Because it’s FUNNY,” the demon replied, not unkindly. 

Aziraphale muttered something that sounded a trifle rude, and Crowley sent him an approving grin. 

“Well no harm done, angel,” the demon said, patting Aziraphale comfortingly on the shoulder. “We’ll just gather up some of this and get on with our movie, all right?” 

Aziraphale watched in astonished mortification as Crowley picked up a bowl and brushed a large pile of popcorn off the counter and into it, then added salt from a suddenly and suspiciously convenient salt shaker. 

“I think maybe you used a little too much popcorn, too,” Crowley said, looking around at the quantity of popcorn still decorating every surface. “We’ve enough here to feed half of the building!” 

Aziraphale shrugged helplessly. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh come on now, none of that,” Crowley said with a smile. He reached up and plucked a piece of popcorn out of Aziraphale’s curls and popped it in his mouth. “It’s good, angel! It’s really good!” 

Aziraphale reached out and sampled a piece from the edge of the sink himself and shrugged. It was fairly tasty. 

“C’mon, now,” Crowley said, holding out a hand. “Let’s watch the movie. We can clean this up later.”

Aziraphale hesitated only a moment before he took it and followed him to the couch. 

The last thing he saw before Crowley dimmed the lights and hit play was the demon cramming a handful of popcorn into his mouth.


	13. Prompt: Roommates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because all lovers have their private jokes. Angels and demons are no exceptions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _This is set in the first month or two after Crowley has moved into the shop, very soon after the beginning of their official relationship – for those reading the series, it falls between the first and second story in Serpent and the Seagull._

Aziraphale first used the unfortunate word one morning as he was tidying up his desk and preparing to open the shop.

“My dear,” he said, turning to cast a considering eye on the demon currently draped across the couch, “I was thinking – now that we’re, well, roommates, I thought perhaps we should discuss whether you want to bring over any more of your – “

Crowley’s eyes flicked open and he sat up sharply. 

“Roommates?” he said incredulously. “Roommates? Really?!” 

Aziraphale fluttered nervously, having a flashback to the “fraternizing” discussion they’d had at St. James so long ago. “Well, no, that’s not _all_ we are, obviously, but I was just referring to the fact that we now both live together in this space and, well, that means it behooves us to have certain discussions about how to blend our possessions together and, well, our lives too…” 

Crowley stood up from where he had been lounging on the couch and took a somewhat menacing step towards the angel, who backed up a little towards the desk. 

“I’m _not_ your roommate, angel,” he said. “I didn’t move in here because the rental market for flats in London has gotten so pricey, or because I needed someone to split the utilities with.”

“No, of course not,” the angel said, backing up again as the demon took another step towards him. He was radiating both displeasure and sex appeal in equal amounts and the angel found this both arousing and confusing in equal part. 

“I moved in here,” the demon continued, implacable, “because I can’t keep my hands off you, and because you are the only person I want to spend time with, and because after six THOUSAND years I don’t want to waste any more time living apart.” 

“Quite right, my dear!” Aziraphale backed up again and found his backside hitting the desk. There was nowhere left to escape to. 

Crowley took advantage of this to step very, very close, so close that their hips were almost touching. He peeled off his sunglasses and leaned forward to place his lips on Aziraphale’s neck, just over his pulse point. 

“And anyway,” he growled as he set to work nipping and kissing him, “would a roommate do _this_?” 

Aziraphale found himself unable to find a voice to answer. 

++

The phrase became something of an inside joke between them, over time. 

++

Aziraphale got up early to make breakfast one morning, and fussed over the place settings with linen and crystal and small beautiful roses in tiny vases before bringing Crowley, who sat looking utterly rumpled and adorable in his black silk pyjamas, a carefully arranged plate. 

The demon looked down and noted that his eggs were arranged in a lovely heart shape complete with an arrow made of bacon piercing it through. 

“Would a roommate do _this_?” Aziraphale said primly, with a cheeky grin. 

Crowley took a blissful bite of the bacon arrow. “No,” he said around his mouthful of food. “Don’t think so!” 

++

Crowley paused once in the midst of lovemaking, a mischievous glimmer in his eye, and looked down at the puzzled angel who was wondering why the action stopped, 

“Angel?” he asked solemnly. “I just had one question about this before we go any further.”

“Yes, yes? What is it?” Aziraphale replied, hurriedly.

“I was just wondering,” Crowley said, his tone sincere. “Would a roommate do _this_?” And then he did something so lascivious and over-the-top that Aziraphale could have all but discorporated, even while wanting for just a moment to smite the smirk off of his face. 

++

Aziraphale retaliated by waiting until they were in the Bentley, just leaving London, then slowly and carefully sliding a hand over onto Crowley’s knee. Crowley tensed up immediately, trying not to be distracted, and Aziraphale, ever the bastard, waited patiently with an innocent look on his face until Crowley relaxed and resumed his focus before sliding his hand just one more inch further up. He made sure to hum a tune and admire the scenery as he did so, as if he were simply distracted and affectionate, leaving Crowley to wonder if the angel was aware of what he was doing. 

Aziraphale succeeded in sliding his hand about halfway up Crowley’s inner thigh before the gig was up. 

“Angel WHAT are you doing?” Crowley moaned. “You’re driving me crazy! Stop that unless you really, really want us to drive into a tree.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry, my dear!” Aziraphale said. “I was just wondering – “ he slid his hand a few inches further up. “Do you think, perhaps -- would a roommate do _this_?”

Crowley grinned. “You’re a bastard, angel.” 

“Your bastard, though,” Aziraphale reminded him. 

Crowley gave him full points for this round, but as he drove home (after firmly removing Aziraphale’s encroaching hand from his leg), he was well at work planning his next move.


	14. Prompt: Kittens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cats don't like demons. Really. They don't. Seriously.

“Cats don’t like me,” Crowley said when Aziraphale told him they were invited up to Jasmine Cottage for tea and to meet their cat’s new litter of kittens. “It’s the evil thing, y’know.”

It was true - most animals had a built-in sense of good and evil, heavenly and hellish, and over the years Crowley had found that certain animals paid more attention to this than others. Horses singularly hated him on sight and did everything they could to bite him, buck him off, and otherwise make his life miserable if he chose to ride them. Elephants tended to trumpet threateningly if they saw him, dogs generally barked at him, and cats tended to scratch him as much as they could.

“That’s rather unfair of them,” Aziraphale said, trying to be supportive. “You’re hardly evil. I mean, yes, you’re a demon, but you’re rather a pleasant demon, all things considered.”

That earned him a glare. But Crowley raised no further protest on the drive up to Tadfield, and soon enough they were knocking on Anathema’s front door. 

“Cats don’t like me, don’t get your hopes up,” Crowley announced to her abruptly upon being welcomed and issued into the kitchen. “They like _him_,” he said, gesturing towards Aziraphale. 

The angel gave him his best _don’t-be-rude_ frown, but Crowley paid no attention – Anathema was more than used to his quirks by now after all the visits they’d shared in the last few years.

Anathema made sympathetic noises and proceeded to put together and serve them each tea and biscuits. She and the angel fell to catching up enthusiastically, Anathema sharing all the latest village gossip (which Crowley couldn’t follow at all, given how he still referred to most people here by nicknames like “book girl” and “cranky old bugger”), and with Aziraphale bringing her up to speed on their life in London. When he could take the boredom of gossip no longer, Crowley picked up his teacup, raised a questioning eyebrow to their host for permission, and then wandered into the living room, intending to warm up by the fire a little. 

Which was how he found the cozy, flannel-lined basket of tiny, furry, black creatures curled up fast asleep on the flagstones in front of the warm hearth. 

He gave them wide berth for a moment before realizing they were all asleep, so he crouched down next to them to investigate for a moment. He tried to count noses or paws and ended up with a count of either five or six kittens – who could really tell who all those paws belonged to, anyways? 

He had to admit they were remarkably cute, each of them entirely jet black as befitted a witch's cat, their round bellies almost too big for their tiny frames and their hair sticking out in all directions. He pulled a throw pillow and a blanket off the couch and stretched out on his stomach on the floor to watch their chests rise and fall. It was quite hypnotic.

++

“It’s been rather quiet in there for a while,” Aziraphale said to Anathema after another hour or so. “Should we check on him, do you think?” 

Anathema smiled. “Well perhaps. But I doubt he could get himself into much trouble in the living room.”

“Don't underestimate him," Aziraphale smirked. "That demon could get himself in trouble in a shoebox.”

Anathema poured them each a fresh cup of tea, and they picked up their cups and moved to the living room. 

The angel got there first and froze just behind the back of the sofa, turning to his friend to make a shushing gesture with a finger against his lip. His eyes were sparkling with the attempt to hold back laughter. He made a motion with his hand to indicate that she should quietly join him.

The witch crept up next to him and took a peek over the couch, towards the hearth.

Crowley was fast asleep on the floor in front of the fire, with seven black kittens piled on top of him. Three were on his back, curled up and snoring away, and one was pawing through his hair as if looking for treasure. Two others had settled in along the side of his body closest to the fire, and the last one had balled itself up between his chin and his neck and was purring so loud they could hear it from where they stood. 

Anathema couldn’t stop the laugh from bursting out of her. 

Crowley startled awake and opened a golden eye to look at them. 

“’Ziraphale,” he said weakly. “Help me.”

The angel smirked. “Oh yes, they’ve claimed you entirely,” he said. “I can see how very much these cats hate you, you wily creature you.” 

Seven pairs of bright little eyes blinked lazily and contentedly at them from their perches on and around Crowley’s body. One of them uttered a shrill and happy little mew. Another began digging one paw and then the other into Crowley’s back, rhythmically, while purring hard. 

“I think they might think you’re their mother, Crowley,” Anathema said. “That one on your back is trying to get you to produce some milk.” 

Crowley shuddered and carefully began plucking kittens off himself in an attempt to rise, but with this many kittens and their inherent wriggliness he failed utterly to get control of the situation. Every time he moved one, it scrambled back up into an even better position and did it's best to subdue him into staying still.

“Seriously, angel,” he grumped. “A little help? I’m going to accidentally crush one of them trying to get up.” 

Aziraphale relented and came over to pluck the remaining kittens off of Crowley’s back so he could get up and sit down on the couch. The angel sat down near him, bringing along three of the kittens to cuddle in his lap, and Anathema settled in cross legged on the ground to play with a few of the others. 

“Your mother is out hunting for your dinner,” she told them. “Just be patient.” 

Crowley straightened his jacket and seemed to be trying hard to regain his dignity. “These kittens clearly have no sense of self-preservation,” he grumbled. “I mean really, snuggling up with a serpent.” 

Aziraphale watched with a smile as one of his little friends stretched and then climbed off his lap to wander back over to Crowley. The kitten crawled up into his lap and mewed at him adorably before turning around three times and collapsing into a heap on his chest. 

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” he said. “I give up.” 

He was going to spend the next three days picking cat hair out of his clothing, he just knew it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wish I could end this with one of the kittens going home with them, but you know Frederick would eat it and then be all like "What???"


	15. Prompt: Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Promises can be pleasant, or threatening, or sometimes a little bit of both.

London was buried under a foot of snow, and a certain angel was feeling just a bit more mischievous than usual. He poked and prodded Crowley until he agreed to bundle up and go for a walk in the nearby streets, and then he nudged and nattered on until Crowley agreed to help him make a whole variety of tiny little snowmen to place on the outside window ledges of various neighboring shop windows (Crowley placed all of his looking in through the windows, which was somewhat amusing and almost made up for his freezing cold hands), and now? 

NOW the little bastard was threatening him with a rather large snowball. 

“I promise you are going to regret that if you throw that at me,” Crowley said warningly, putting a little distance between himself and his companion.

“I promise you, I’m not.” 

The angel didn’t even have the decency to look intimidated. He just looked all red-cheeked and glowing and full of freaking winter cheer. It was entirely indecent. He advanced on the demon, who was doing his best to keep a parked car or two between him and the angel. They edged around the bakery delivery vehicle for a few minutes, neither of them getting any closer or further away from each other. 

“Oh, I promise you’ll be reconsidering in just a moment here, angel!” Crowley tried to add some glower to his voice. 

“Oh, think you’re scary, do you? I promise you, you aren’t.” Aziraphale taunted, wreathed in a rather predatory-looking smile. 

Crowley narrowed his eyes. “I promise you I am capable of being more scary than you’ve ever seen. Do not, I repeat do NOT, hit me with ---”

With a loud thwack, a wet ball of mush hit him directly in the chest. 

“—that snowball,” Crowley finished lamely. He looked down at his shirt in utter shock, then up at the angel, then down at his shirt again, then back up. “You are a DEAD man angel, do you hear me?” 

Aziraphale laughed – he outright laughed, the bloody bastard! – and took off down the street towards the shop at a good run. 

It took a moment or two for Crowley to shake off the shock, but when he did, his first clear thought was to scoop up an enormous armful of snow from the roof of the car in front of him, and to magic the shop door locked tight against any angelic entry. The shop, in a mischievous mood of its own, cooperated. 

“You are going to pay, do you hear me?” he said, advancing on the angel in a slow and menacing walk as the angel reached the front door of the shop and helplessly rattled the knob. “I promise you, you are going to end this night as an angel-shaped snowman on the front walk.”

The angel took one look at the large pile of snow coming his way and edged his way around the corner towards the adult bookstore and ran. 

Crowley grinned. Who said being out in the snow wasn’t a fun way to spend time? He was able to be the bigger person and admit when he was wrong! He was really beginning to enjoy himself. He calculated a few trajectories and set himself on an intercept course for where he thought the angel was headed. 

After all, he had promises to keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry so short, I am very tired and only had a tiny bit of time tonight. 
> 
> Anyhoo -- two things inspired this:
> 
> 1\. I was wondering if I could use the word promise in almost every line of dialog.
> 
> 2\. I was thinking about a recent tumblr post about how prompt authors are such bastards because you'll give them a prompt like "dying" and they'll write a piece of utter fluff about how the dying fall leaves on the ground are the perfect metaphor for a character's love, and you give them a prompt like "sunlight" and they'll write how the glint of sun on the barrel of a gun is the last thing their character ever sees -- and it made me want to play with subverting all the lovely, mushy, romantic things I COULD have written for a promise prompt. Which is how this was born. :)


	16. Prompt: Chess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley has few improvements to the game of chess. Aziraphale almost has an aneurysm.

Playing chess with Crowley was, in a word, a highly irregular experience. 

Aziraphale had been an early adopter of chess, picking it up in the early 7th century and coming to be quite the master over the following millennia. Over time, he’d collected multiple chess sets, and even once posed as a model for the bishops in the famous Lewis chess pieces. It had been, at various points, one of his favorite and most invigorating past times. 

Which is why, in the mid-fifteenth century, he’d decided to teach Crowley the game. 

He had since lived to regret this several times over. 

It wasn’t that Crowley wasn’t a good player. He was actually a fine chess strategist, his quick and agile mind taking immediately to gambits and long-laid strategies, traps and double crosses. For the first century or so, Crowley was a perfectly well-behaved partner at the game; then, however, having mastered the basics, he moved on to trying to “improve” the game in various ways. 

This quickly became a problem. 

++

“Shall we play?” Aziraphale said one winters evening, gesturing towards the chess board he kept on a small table to the right of his desk. “It’s been quite some time since we’ve had a game, and we do seem to be snowed in…” 

Crowley looked meditatively at the board for a few minutes. He had nothing pressing to do, and there was no sense of danger lurking anywhere in the vicinity. He noted that he was relaxed, warm, happy, well fed, and slightly tipsy -– all good conditions to be in if one were going to play chess, in his book. Plus chess offered him numerous opportunities to subtly aggravate his angel, which was always good fun. 

“Sure, why not!” Crowley said. “I’m black, though.”

“Of course you’re black,” Aziraphale said. “As if you’d ever play the white side.”

Crowley nodded. It was true; proper demons would never choose to play the white pieces. They got to work setting things up, each of them putting their own pieces in place. 

“Where’s my other snake?” Crowley complained, brandishing a piece. “I only have one.”

Aziraphale stared at him flatly. “That’s a bishop.”

“No, _you_ have bishops. _I_ have snakes.”

“You know very well that piece is a bishop,” the angel said firmly. “He can only move diagonally, and in one direction at a time.”

“_Yours_ can only move diagonally,” Crowley explained matter-of-factly. “Mine can pivot and go back and forth diagonally. Like a snake. You know, slithering.”

Aziraphale sensed the early beginnings of a headache. “No. That’s not how it works!” He dug around in the box and found Crowley’s other BISHOP and handed it to him. “No slithering!”

Soon they finished setting up and started the game. Aziraphale began with a strong effort to control the center of the board, while Crowley seemed to be playing some game of his own devising, slithering his “snakes” around the edges of the board and picking off Aziraphale’s pawns (which he insisted on calling priests) one by one with no real attempt to protect his own side. 

What really enraged Aziraphale, though, was that this complete lack of a strategy seemed to be _working_. Despite knowing every major and minor gambit of the game, it seemed impossible to predict and defend against someone who played as chaotically and with such complete disregard for all known theories on strategy as Crowley did. 

Somehow, within an hour of play, the angel found himself pinned down in one corner of the board, with his queen, king, one rook, and one knight left to try to build a defensive perimeter.

“Ha!” announced Crowley. “I’m about to take your last Templar.” 

Aziraphale frowned dramatically. “It’s a KNIGHT, serpent.”

“That’s what I said, angel,” Crowley said forgivingly. “Knights Templar.” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale said begrudgingly, “I suppose that makes sense.” 

Crowley gave him a feral grin as he captured the knight; he then set about making noises of intense suffering ("help! oh no!") as he dramatically dropped the piece to the floor. In Crowley's view, captured pieces ‘fell’ into the infernal realms. 

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. Such dramatics. 

The angel fought back valiantly but soon found himself nearing checkmate. 

“YES!” Crowley said with a fist pump, and smacked his bishop down on the board dramatically. “My snake is going to take your archangel in two moves! Take that, you pillock!” 

Aziraphale looked like he was considering banging his head on the desk. “There isn’t any such thing as an archangel in chess, and you know it!”

Crowley looked put off. “Of course there is,” he said, pointing to the white king. “That’s him right there. Yours is Gabriel, mainly because it makes it more enjoyable for me to kill him. Mine can be Uriel, since she punched you. That way if you capture it – which you won’t – it will be more satisfying.” 

Aziraphale didn't want to ask, but he couldn't help himself. “Why an archangel?”

“Because!” Crowley insisted, sounding a bit as if he couldn’t imagine how the angel didn’t grasp this already. “It’s a totally rubbish piece! Ineffective little git, can only move one square at a time, totally self-important but never really helps anyone in the whole game – doesn’t that sound even a little bit like the archangel Gabriel to you?”

Aziraphale thought that one over and then grinned. “Ok,” he said, “I’ll allow that one. Makes perfect sense!”

“Good,” Crowley said, grabbing another piece and dramatically adding it to the pile of 'fallen' pieces on the floor. “Because that’s almost check. I’ve got your God piece in the next move, and there’s nothing your cathedral can do about it, and then the Archangel is mine.” 

“Queen,” Aziraphale moaned. “Rook. For heaven’s sake!”

“Not in my game, angel,” Crowley smirked. “Now hush up and take your defeat like an entity should.”

Aziraphale suddenly remembered why he only had the stomach to play chess with Crowley once every century or so.


	17. Prompt: Second Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale have different memories of what counts as their first and second kisses.

The angel and the demon were celebrating their second anniversary at their usual table at the Ritz, the gorgeous rich linens draped over their laps and candles twinkling on the table, the soft murmur of conversation flowing around them. Aziraphale took a swallow of his champagne, and looked at Crowley consideringly. 

"What is it, angel?" Crowley said, leaning in with his chin in his hand and just drinking in the glow of his partner in the candlelight. 

“I was just wondering, my dear -- do you remember our first kiss?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley looked affronted. “Of course I do, angel, it was only two years ago – I’m not mental.” 

Aziraphale shook his head. “No, you’re wrong,” he said. “That was our _second_ kiss.” 

Crowley frowned. “I am absolutely certain I would remember if you had ever kissed me before.” 

“Well it was quite some time ago.”

“You’re making this up,” Crowley said. 

“And you were rather drunk,” Aziraphale said with a slight grin, obviously enjoying this.

“What? When?”

“Actually, you were _extremely_ drunk.”

There’s no doubt about it, Crowley thought; the angel was toying with him. And what’s worse, he got the feeling that this story was actually true and not just some kind of twisted joke. 

“Aziraphale!” Crowley nearly shouted, attracting the disapproving attention of a number of other patrons. He quieted down and slumped in his seat. “What are you _talking_ about?”

The angel was clearly reconsidering teasing his love in such a public setting. “Let’s go back home," he said apologetically, "and then I’ll tell you, all right? It’s hardly the place.”

“You brought it up,” the demon muttered, but he acquiesced. He also quickly brought the meal to a close, tossed down some money to pay the bill, and hurried them out of the restaurant. He then tucked an arm around Aziraphale and all but speed-walked them home, as if they were trying to set a world record. 

++

They’d barely walked into the shop when Crowley snapped and locked the door, lowering the windows, and then threw himself down on the couch. Aziraphale, amused, watched him glower. 

“Okay, angel,” he said, “I waited. Now tell me what you’re on about with us having kissed before.” 

Aziraphale sat down near him and adjusted his waistcoat primly. “Do you remember the three day festival held in Rome in, oh what was it, something like 77AD? All Bacchus and nymphs and wine and strange little dishes with song birds in them?” 

Crowley thought for a minute. “I think so – we were both there on work assignment? You were protecting someone who was going to be important someday and I was tempting a senator?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said. “That’s the one. Well, after the first day our missions were essentially completed, but we decided to stick around because the wine was so good and the people watching was extraordinary.” He got a faraway, distracted look in his eyes for a moment. “And they did have some truly excellent wine, I believe from the southern peninsula, possibly Pompeii.”

Crowley cleared his throat meaningfully and made a ‘get on with it’ gesture. 

“We drank rather a lot of it, for rather a long time,” Aziraphale said, smiling fondly, “and we ended up lounging together on a – well on a lounge, I suppose, for most of the third evening. Everyone was very liberal with the touching and draping over each other and the expansive displays of affection then, and we were just trying to fit in of course and not draw too much attention. And, well, somewhere in that final evening, I believe I kissed you rather thoroughly.”

“_You_ kissed me?” Crowley said.

“As I said, I’d had rather a lot to drink,” Aziraphale admitted. “And you were just being so charming and pleasant, and it was warm and dark and we were touching in ways we didn’t usually, and I just couldn’t stop myself.”

Crowley wracked his brain. He had a vague memory of lounging on a couch with the angel and feeling dizzy and happy – and then nothing. A big blank. “Why wouldn’t I remember this?” 

Aziraphale laughed. “Because you were so drunk that you passed out completely. At first I thought I’d rendered you completely limp with passion – I was feeling rather proud of myself right in that moment – but then I realized you were half in an alcohol-fueled coma. Put somewhat of a damper on the proceedings.” 

Crowley groaned. “I did not! Tell me that isn’t true!” 

“Oh it’s true, I’m afraid. Quite a blow to my ego, that was.” 

Crowley pouts. “You never said anything about it!”

Aziraphale had taken Crowley back to his rooms and made sure he made it safely to bed, miracling most of the alcohol out of his system. When he next saw him a day or two later, it was very obvious that Crowley didn’t remember. The angel thought about telling him what had happened but ultimately decided that perhaps it was best not to bring it up – his momentary foolishness could have a devastating effect on their growing friendship, and he suspected that perhaps the demon would be horrified if he’d remembered. The last thing he wanted was a century of awkwardness. 

“I suppose I just thought it was for the best,” Aziraphale admitted. “Perhaps a divine favor, really, that you didn’t remember my indiscretion. I wasn't at all sure how you would have felt about it in the light of day.” 

Crowley sighed. “I wish I remembered,” he said. “Even if I wouldn't have known what to do with the knowledge at the time.” 

“I’m sorry, my dear.”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Crowley said bitterly, “it was my stupid blackout.” 

The angel laughed. 

“Although,” Crowley said, “I _am_ a little miffed at you.”

“For what?”

“Because!" Crowley sputtered. "You’re telling me that you snogged the daylights out of me in 79 AD when I was barely conscious enough to take part, and then you didn’t bother to do it again for another nineteen HUNDRED and forty one years?” 

Aziraphale considered. “Well, when you put it that way…”

“You have some making up to do,” Crowley said, mock seriously. “Nineteen HUNDRED and forty one times, by my count.” 

Aziraphale leaned in for a kiss. He broke off a moment later and sat back, searching Crowley’s face. “Does this help?”

“That’s one,” Crowley said, long-sufferingly. “Only nineteen hundred and forty more.”

“Oh my,” Aziraphale said with a hint of laughter in his voice. “I might need some chapstick before this is over.” 

Crowley pulled him back in, and the angel set about making things right.


	18. Prompt: Cooking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley begins acting suspiciously. Aziraphale channels his inner James Bond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story refers (very briefly) to the events of Tell Me Lies - if you haven't read it and want to catch up, you can [read it here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20766059).  
.  
.  
\---

Crowley was up to something, Aziraphale knew it. The demon was suddenly acting shifty and jumpy, snatching his phone up whenever the latest message notification arrived and quickly scanning it while keeping the screen tilted and out of view. 

Aziraphale was, in a word, disturbed. He was even more disturbed when the demon started disappearing somewhere every Wednesday evening, without reasonable explanation. He'd mumble something about checking with his contacts, demon work to do, checking the warding on the neighborhood. He never accepted offers of company, and he was always gone exactly two and a half hours. When he came back, he smelled like food and waved off all inquiries with garbled comments that weren't quite lies but added no light to the situation. It was decidedly odd. 

On the third such week, Aziraphale waved goodbye with a sick feeling in his stomach and spent that evening worrying and fretting and trying to decide what to do. He thought back over the last few months and tried to decide if he’d done something to push Crowley away; he couldn’t put his finger on any such incident. If anything, things seemed to have been going exceptionally well in the last six months; in fact, they’d been nearly inseparable since they had the big fight about Aziraphale’s lying and spent those tortuous ten days apart. Both of them seemed to hold onto the other with increased ferver for having faced and surmounted their first large problem, and Aziraphale had thought they were well and truly past it. 

And now here they were, he thought sadly, with the demon hiding things from him. The irony did not escape him. 

There must, Aziraphale thought, be someone else. The thought cracked something inside of him and he batted it away but it kept returning. Why else would Crowley keep claiming to be going off to run errands and then coming back smelling like he’d been in a restaurant? 

He resolved to follow him the next time he went out. Time to face this head on. 

++

Aziraphale immediately went into full on spy mode. Always one to start with wardrobe, he spent some time thinking of the best outfit in which to surveil his demon. Clearly his usual outfit was of no use – he’d stick out like a sore thumb in any dark shadows in his light colored clothing and his bright hair. He considered a cape, but reluctantly discarded it in the end for a soft gray suit he rarely wore, and experimented with his various shoes to see which might be the least likely to give him away.

Next, he scouted the nearby streets around the neighborhood and mentally bookmarked a number of good points for discretely watching the pavement and various intersections. He could never just trail along behind Crowley outright – the demon was much too cagey not to notice that. No, this was a game that required skill, and he was going to have to play it extremely well. 

The following Wednesday, when Crowley left, he watched the direction he headed off in, then snapped his fingers to change himself instantly into what he now thought of as his spy suit. He then tucked a fedora down on his head to hide his shock of bright hair, and magicked himself to the first observation point he’d selected, about a block and half away in the right direction. He used a little extra grace to dampen the field of angelic energy associated with his reappearance, so that hopefully Crowley wouldn’t notice it. 

Crowley passed by on the opposite side of the street, seemingly none the wiser, and turned left down the next corner without a look behind him. Aziraphale crept to the corner and watched to see if he continued down that road, then again used a muted miracle to ferret himself a bit ahead of Crowley where he could watch him undetected. This time he overshot the mark a bit – he watched behind him as Crowley approached and turned again rather than passing by. This put him a bit off the map of Aziraphale’s scouted locations, so the angel had to go off script and follow him on foot for a while. He did so as carefully as he could, lingering almost a block behind and on the other side of the street. 

He managed to get away with it, mostly because Crowley arrived at his destination very shortly thereafter – a sushi restaurant Aziraphale had never been to. Crowley stopped at the door, straightened out his jacket and ran a hand through his hair, and then went inside. Aziraphale inched closer until he could see through the front windows as Crowley was greeted by the girl behind the bar with obvious affection, and then a tall, well-appointed, elegant Japanese man came out of the back room to kiss him on both cheeks and shepherded him out of sight into a private room. 

Crowley looked, Aziraphale had to admit, delighted to see him. 

Aziraphale didn’t stop to allow any emotion at the time; it was too dangerous with Crowley so attuned to his feelings to allow any response he might pick up on. Instead he paced, circling the block multiple times, knowing Crowley would be some time before he emerged. He poured energy into shielding the prickling rage he was feeling. He fidgeted. He dug his nails into his palms. He shifted his weight from foot to foot. And through it all, he stared through the window towards the door Crowley had disappeared through earlier. 

After an interminably long time, Crowley appeared. The elegant, slender man he’d seen earlier came with him, carrying a small bag. He laid an affectionate hand on Crowley’s shoulder and handed the bag to him, wreathed in smiles. They both appeared to laugh. 

Aziraphale lost his grip on his shielding as a spike of white-hot rage rose up in his chest. He couldn’t help it; he glowered ferociously at the pair. 

In the bar, Crowley’s head swiveled fast towards the windows, his golden eyes wide with shock. 

Aziraphale leapt back as if he’d been burned, but it was too late. He knew he’d been seen. 

Aziraphale slammed himself back home and materialized in their bedroom, where he first paced in a circle, and then for lack of anything better to do, began balling up Crowley’s clean laundry which was laying in a nicely-folded pile. Messing with someone’s laundry was, in Aziraphale’s world, a declaration of war. Take that, he thought fiercely, dropping a button down shirt on the floor in a sloppy pile.

There was a whump of air and Crowley appeared five feet away from him. 

“Angel, what the hell?” he asked, worriedly. “Was that you outside the restaurant?”

Aziraphale wadded up a shirt and threw it directly into Crowley’s face. “Why yes it was,” he snapped. “And the game is up, my dear. I saw you!”

Crowley pulled the shirt off of himself and looked confused. “You saw what, exactly?”

Aziraphale threw another balled up shirt at him, harder. It hit Crowley in the face with a slapping sound. “I saw you with your new friend,” he yelled, “being all… all… affectionate.” 

Crowley pulled the shirt off with a little more force and tossed it at the bed. “Stop that,” he said, “and calm down! What are you talking about?”

“Oh don’t you play innocent with me,” Aziraphale said, tossing yet another shirt at him, hard enough to sting when it caught him in the cheek. “I saw him kiss you! And I know you’ve been lying to me and sneaking off for weeks!” 

Crowley flipped the shirt to the floor and leapt forward, grasping Aziraphale by both wrists, hard. “Stop hitting me with things!” he snapped. “You’re being ridiculous! Whatever you thought you saw, you’re wrong!” 

The angel struggled against him for a moment, and then he seemed to lose his fight all together and sat heavily down onto the bed behind him. Crowley sat down next to him but still didn’t release his arms. 

“I understand,” Aziraphale said, forlornly. “He seems lovely. He’s certainly tall and handsome and – and slim!” His voice cracked a little on that word. “I can see why you might be interested in someone like that. I won’t stand in your way if it’s something you need to get out of your system — ”

“Aziraphale have you lost your –” the demon said quietly. 

“ — and I hear this is a thing that happens after you’ve been together for a while,” Aziraphale continued, not even noticing the interruption. “And well, two years isn’t truly all that long, but then again it’s been six millennia if you look at it differently, and maybe you just need a little bit of a distraction and I can do it, I can learn to cope, as long as you come back to me after –”

“Aziraphale I’m not –” the demon said a little louder. 

“—after you’re done,” he continued, beginning to bristle. “Because you _have_ to. I refuse to let you go, no matter who this man is. I will be able to forgive you, eventually. I am an angel, after all -- ”

“AZIRAPHALE!” Crowley shouted, shocking the angel into silence. “I’m not having an affair.” 

“You’ve been meeting this man in restaurants!” Aziraphale said, eyes narrowed. “He kissed you! They all knew you there!” 

Crowley groaned. “I’m taking a cooking class, you absolute moron!”

Aziraphale stared at him disbelievingly and said nothing for several long moments.

“Wh-what?” 

“Wednesday nights at seven. Sushi making. They hold it in the back, in the banquet room.” Crowley looked like he couldn’t decide whether to be cross or amused. 

Aziraphale swallowed. “Why would you do that?” 

“Because, you idiot,” Crowley said, “It was a surprise. For our anniversary next month. I was going to make you sushi at home.” The demon opened the bag he had dropped earlier and showed Aziraphale the bamboo sushi rolling pad and special rice vinegar he’d purchased.

Aziraphale felt the blood drain from his face as the anger was replaced with shock and then horror. He opened and closed his mouth several times, unable to decide on what to say, and finally just groaned hopelessly and flopped back onto the bed, crossing his arms over his eyes. He waited quietly for the earth to open and swallow him up. It failed to happen, but the room did seem to spin agreeably for a moment.

“I am such an arse,” he moaned. 

“I didn’t know you had a jealous streak, angel,” Crowley said, settling on amused. 

“Neither did I,” the angel moaned, still not uncovering his face. 

“I’m somewhat touched,” Crowley said, “that you went to such lengths. Even changed your clothes, did you? You did a good job following me, I never felt you there until the very end.” 

Aziraphale hurrumphed. “I do have some skills outside of book bindery, you know.” 

Crowley laid down on his side next to the angel and laid a hand on his hair, stroking softly. “Angel, I would never cheat on you,” he said. “I’m a little insulted you would even consider it. How could you think I would ever look at anyone else when I have you?” 

Aziraphale pulled one arm away from his face and looked at Crowley a little reproachfully. “Oh, I don’t know. Because you were being very suspicious? All secretive? Sneaking about?” 

Crowley thought about it. “I suppose you have a point. I should’ve realized you’d notice something was up.” 

“Of course I noticed,” Aziraphale said. “I notice everything about you.” 

“Well,” Crowley said, “let’s call this one a draw. You overreacted, I underestimated, we both messed up. Okay?” He leaned in and gave the angel a soft kiss. 

“Oh my dear,” the angel said, kissing him back on each eyelid. “I don’t deserve you.” 

“You do,” Crowley said. “Can’t think of anyone more deserving, myself.” 

Aziraphale stopped to consider the potential double meanings of that, and then gave up and wrapped his arm around the demon. He’d done enough thinking for one night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started this with the image in my head of Aziraphale spying on Crowley from outside the restaurant, and also with an image of him balling up Crowley's clean shirts and throwing them on the floor. Which is such a silly, petty thing to do and Crowley probably wouldn't even care, but Aziraphale of course thinks it's so deeply shocking to mess with someone else's laundry. :) 
> 
> I feel a little silly posting this one, because I normally have an aversion to these stories with what I’d call an idiot-plot; the kind of plot where if the idiots involved would just talk to each other, none of this would be a problem. BUT in this case, we’ve already clearly established that they are both a bit of a mess, so I figured, why not. Sorry and bear with me. I'm not all that great at fluff without angst!


	19. Prompt: Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A demon and an angel contemplate past and future.

“Where do you think the humans will be in another thousand years, angel?” Crowley asked one day. He was in a contemplative mood. They were lazing around in Kensington Park, just for a change of pace, watching the people visit the Princess Diana memorial and waxing nostalgic about royals they’d known in the past. It led one to think of time stretching forward, too, the demon found. 

“Oh, heavens,” Aziraphale said. “I suppose in space. Maybe on the moon?”

“Probably still killing each other, one way or the other,” Crowley said philosophically. At the moment even the evils of humanity couldn’t flicker its way through his contentment. 

“I do hope not,” Aziraphale said. “I hope they find their way to being more peaceful.”

“Not sure why they would,” Crowley said, “when even heaven can’t seem to manage it.” 

“Hrm, you have a point,” the angel replied. “You sound like you need another chocolate, my dear.” He passed the box over and the demon plucked out one of the Grand Marnier flavored ones. He adored all the ones with alcohol-inspired fillings, content to leave the coconut and the cherries to the angel. 

“Where do you think _we_ will be in a thousand years?” Aziraphale asked. 

Crowley smiled lazily at him. “Hopefully in bed,” he said lasciviously. 

Aziraphale smirked. “Well obviously. But besides that. Still in London?”

Crowley thought for a moment. “Well assuming there still is a London –”

Aziraphale gasped. “There will ALWAYS be a London!”

“—assuming there still is a London, I’d say probably not. I’ve been thinking here and there that it might be nice to think about looking at a second home, somewhere, eventually.” 

“Oh really?” Aziraphale said. “That could be nice. Somewhere quieter, perhaps?”

“Possibly Wales,” Crowley said. “Or the Isle of Man. The whiskey’s good there.” 

“We could raise sheep!” Aziraphale gushed. 

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Sheep? Six thousand years of life experience and you want to raise sheep?” 

“And bees! And you could make a garden! We could live by the sea!” 

Crowley groaned and continued to give the angel a hard time, but he had to admit it sounded rather nice. They’ve been in the bustle of a major city for almost the entire last millennium, and he has begun to think getting away from the crowds for a while would be a nice change of pace. 

“We could live in a lighthouse, Crowley!” Aziraphale said, all wild enthusiasm. “Wouldn’t that be romantic?”

“Sounds windy, angel,” Crowley said. “And you know how tempting it would be for me to turn the light the wrong direction and drive ships onto the rocks.”

“Oh, that’s true, I hadn’t thought of that.”

“You’d have to watch me constantly,” Crowley grinned. 

“Well,” Aziraphale said with a smirk, “if a job needs doing, you’d best do it yourself, as they say. I’m up to it. I’ve had a close eye on you for a long time, foul fiend.”

Crowley smiled and feigned a smack. He laid back on their picnic blanket and threaded a hand through Aziraphale’s, closing his eyes and enjoying the patterns the dappled sunlight makes on them, filtering through the London Plane trees above. 

It’s a topic they found themselves coming back to more and more often. A future elsewhere. They toss around many ideas. Kyoto for the cherry blossoms? The top of a mountain in Switzerland? An island in the Pacific? New Zealand? It’s a fun and distracting hobby, thinking up new and interesting places they could live for a while. 

The truth is, Crowley doesn’t much mind where they live – the angel was much more fussy about these things. All that matters to him, he thought, is that they finally have a future to plan out. Together is the only part that matters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See? I CAN write one entirely without angst. Although I guess I did mention how people keep killing each other and the possibility that London might be destroyed in the next thousand years. *bangs head on desk*


	20. Prompt: Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley calls the shop home, twice by accident, and once on purpose.

He remembers the first time the demon said it, called the bookstore home. Aziraphale doesn’t think that Crowley even realized he’d said it. It was years before they were lovers, early on in their time with Warlock, and they were taking a short break from their respective duties as nanny and gardener to spend a weekend in London. As they drove into Soho, they both seemed to uncoil a little, and when they pulled up in front of the shop, Crowley opened the car door for him with a flourish and escorted him into the shop with a large grin on his face. 

He took a deep breath. “Smell that, angel?” He asked. “We’re home.” 

Aziraphale felt an immediate swell of overwhelming love, which he quickly hid while busying himself putting tea things together, and made sure not to mention the revealing slip the demon had just made. But he kept that comment buried away, deep inside, and pulled it out from time to time to examine it, like a prized coin. It never failed to make him feel warm. 

++

It continued to happen, off and on, for the next decade. They’d be having dinner out, lingering over wine, and Crowley, a little too far into his cups, would lose his usual reserve. 

“Done with your dessert, angel?” he’d say, chin in hand, his shoulders relaxed and his mouth curved up in that fond fashion he had. “Good – let’s go home.” 

Aziraphale would stamp down on the urge to wiggle happily and would instead wiggle privately, on the inside, where no one else could see and make him feel self conscious, and then wait to see when they got to the pavement whether home meant Crowley’s place or his. 

Invariably, he meant the bookshop. He’d escort the angel there, and linger hopefully until he was invited in for a nightcap. Which he always was. 

Aziraphale added these moments to his little collection of treasured memories, and held them close. 

++ 

It came up more directly once, when they were at Crowley’s place. This was always a rare occurrence. Crowley didn’t seem especially comfortable there, and he issued an invitation to visit only once every few years. Honestly, Aziraphale wasn’t especially comfortable there either – it was too bright and too hard, all sharp angles and concrete, and the furniture was, in his view, appallingly hard and unwelcoming. He did like the plants, though, and Crowley had a marvelous, if ultra-modern kitchen. It would be improved, Aziraphale thought, by a large, brightly colored, antique enamel stove and a variety of copper pots hanging from a rack in the ceiling, but he knew better than to suggest such a thing. 

“Why do you like your furniture so uncomfortable?” Aziraphale asked him on one of his rare visits. 

“Oh,” Crowley said, surprised. He’d never really thought about. “I dunno – I bought them for looks, I suppose. Never really thought about, you know, lounging around on any of it.”

“But this is your home!” the angel protested. “Don’t you want to be comfortable?”

Crowley looked around dubiously. “This isn’t home,” he said. “This is just where I keep my stuff. Homes are warm and cozy, soft. Places you want to spend time, not just somewhere to sleep.”

It sounded, Aziraphale thought, like he was describing the bookshop. 

++

It was nearly a week after Crowley moved in before he finally had the nerve to say it deliberately. They were out running errands together, doing the marketing for dinner and breakfast, picking up odds and ends they needed around the shop. The demon had a few things to pick up in Mayfair and the angel needed to see a book dealer, so they agreed to split up for the remainder of the afternoon. 

Crowley leaned in and gave him and awkward and adorable kiss on the forehead. 

“I’ll see you at home, all right?” he said. Then he blushed, deeply. 

Aziraphale smiled beatifically at him. “Home,” he said softly. “It’s lovely to hear you call it that.” 

Crowley, always too easily embarrassed, deflected. “Slip of the tongue, angel. Pay no attention.”

Aziraphale tutted and reached up to cup a hand around the demon’s cheek. “Shush, you silly demon. Of _course_ it’s your home. Has been for decades – it’s just a little more official now. Don’t be embarrassed by it.”

Crowley, mortified, cleared his throat and hemmed and hawed and finally squeaked out a goodbye and left on his errands. But Aziraphale could see the happiness in the set of his back and the swing of his hips as he walked down the street. The demon, sensing his watching eyes, raised a hand in a saucy wave, without turning around. 

Aziraphale wondered if your heart could truly explode from too much love, as he turned and made his way to the next stop on his list.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More non-angsty fluff! I am getting the hang of this again. :)


	21. Prompt: Friends to Lovers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale try to understand their history through the medium of Hollywood rom-coms.

Aziraphale took his revenge on the way Crowley was always making him watch horror movies by inflicting upon him the sappiest romantic comedies he could find. It became a competition of sorts between the two of them – Crowley would bring home The Exorcist (which they both actually got a good laugh out of), and Aziraphale would reciprocate with The Notebook. Crowley would bring home Human Centipede (for which Aziraphale didn’t speak to him for several days) and Aziraphale would retaliate with You’ve Got Mail. 

Things continued to escalate, until one day for lack of any truly horrible rom-coms to bring into play, Aziraphale defaulted to a movie he rather liked – When Harry Met Sally. 

“I think you’ll actually like this one, my dear,” Aziraphale said. “It’s not the usual twaddle I’ve been inflicting on you… this one actually has style. And it’s a wonderful friends-to-lovers story, so that’s appropriate.” 

Crowley looked dubious. “Why is that appropriate?”

Aziraphale frowned. “Because… we? Were friends? And now we’re…” he fell silent, still hating to say the word aloud for some reason. 

“Lovers?” Crowley said with a salacious grin. 

“In a word, yes.” 

Crowley humphed. “I still don’t see how it relates to us. But all right, queue it up!”

They watched in silence for the first twenty minutes, then Crowley paused it. “You’re clearly that blonde character,” he said. “Look at how she is about food! I didn’t think there could be anyone as fussy as you, but I think we’ve found her. And you used to be prissy like that, about sex, you know – before…” 

Aziraphale pouted at him. “Well you’re clearly Harry,” he said. “He’s all… carnal and inappropriate. Touchy feely. Telling her the sex things always gets in the way.”

Crowley grinned. “_I’ll_ get in your way, just say the word.”

“Just start the movie back up, would you?” 

..

Crowley had to admit, the movie was pretty entertaining. He liked the snappy dialog and the witty plot; he laughed at the diner scene, snorted when the main characters’ double date partners ditched them for each other, he appeared completely absorbed when the characters finally slept together and then immediately broke up, and at the end when the male lead decided he couldn’t live without the female lead and came running to find her, he felt himself getting a tiny, infinitismal bit misty-eyed. He was quick to miracle it away before Aziraphale could notice. The angel was always watching him like a freaking hawk, for any sign of sentiment.

“Well, my dear?” Aziraphale said as the credits rolled. “What did you think?”

Crowley affected indifference. “Not bad, angel. It wasn't your usual drek.” 

Aziraphale looked affronted. “You _loved_ it. I saw how absorbed you were in it.” 

“Okay, okay,” the demon said, reluctantly agreeable. “It was pretty good.” 

The angel sighed and ruffled his hair. “And anyway, I do think it’s a good reflection of parts of our story.” 

Crowley thought. “Like how they fight for years but they still eventually become allies and then they shag and then they fall in love?”

Aziraphale laughed. “I suppose that about sums it up, yes. Very poetic of you.”

Crowley made an exaggerated pose of thinking it over, stroking his chin and staring up at the ceiling. “Naw,” he finally said, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “That’s not like us at _all_, angel. You’re off your rocker.”

Aziraphale hit him with a throw pillow. 

“Now, let’s talk about our next horror movie,” Crowley said. “I was thinking perhaps we’d move into subtitled pieces. Have you ever seen the ring? Now there’s a story I think will resonate with our relationship…”

Aziraphale hit him again, just to shut him up.


	22. Prompt: Letters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale has a hidden compartment in his desk. Crowley gets his fingers into everything. The angel still has some secrets.  
.  
.  
\--

One of Aziraphale’s most prized possessions was his old, secretary-style desk. It was filled with big drawers, little drawers, cubbies, and pigeon holes. He had purchased it in the 18th century; two hundred years later, it had that glow unique to well-loved and well-maintained furniture. Of all the individual pieces of furniture in his shop, it was undoubtedly his favorite. 

Among the many valued features of his desk was a small, hidden compartment just behind the smaller drawers on the top. By placing your fingers exactly so, you could press a small bump that in turn slid a panel back and opened up a space just the right size for hiding away a stack of papers or a small book. The angel used it to hide away things that he had formerly wanted to keep from the archangels’ eyes – letters of a personal nature, some of them between him and Crowley, and some of them from humans he had been close to over the years. 

Even Crowley didn’t know about the compartment, as far as he was aware. Not that he wouldn’t have shown him, if asked – but sometimes it was nice to have an inconsequential secret in reserve, something to keep to yourself like a magpie with a shiny pebble.

He hardly ever opened it, so he was somewhat surprised when the bump caught his eye one morning as he sat with his cup of English Breakfast tea, getting ready to start his day. 

Curious, he pressed it, and it slid open with a soft _snick_.

There were a few dozen letters inside, tied with an old blue ribbon, and a few other ephemera he’d collected over the years. Most were old, quite old. Several of them had antique wax seals on them. One was even a scroll. 

Aziraphale took a sip of his tea and let his eyes roam over the envelopes. Most of them, the ones from Crowley, he knew by heart, having read them innumerable times. A few of them were less familiar, because he hadn’t returned to them as often. It was one small set of these that he pulled out – a half dozen missives from his dear friend Oscar, a cherished memento and one he didn’t often examine because the loss was relatively recent and fresh. And also because Crowley tended, even now, to bristle somewhat adorably whenever Mr. Wilde’s name was mentioned, so he tried to spare him the aggravation. Still, Crowley was out, and he felt that he’d gained the distance to re-read them.

He sat back in his chair, tea in hand, and unfolded the first one. Oscar’s letters were an experience just to look at – his wild handwriting looped and sloped across the page, and he sas downright profligate with spacing, sprawling his large words across them without regard to margins or line height. Aziraphale smiled, remembering his exuberance from this small thing. 

The first letter he pulled out was from 1882.

__

> _My dear boy,_ it began. _How are you in London? Having found much delight in our recent visit, I thought I would share with you the depth of doldrums I find myself faced with at your absence. Truly you are cruel to withhold yourself from further visits with me; please remedy this at once by joining me in North America, for this tour is interminable. I arrived in New York on Wednesday and was immediately set upon by …_

He read it closely in silence, a smile on his lips – this, he knew, was one of the few happy letters in the pile, and his heart broke in advance thinking of what was to come. He read through one other relatively pleasant, chatty letter from his London days, then got to the difficult materials – two letters written from jail, and finally two increasingly desperate letters from his final days in France.

When he finished, he put them down on the desk and laid his face in his hands, overcome with sadness for his lost friend. 

“Angel?” came a voice behind him. “You okay?”

Aziraphale actually jumped. Somehow he hadn’t heard Crowley come in. He discreetly wiped his eyes and straightened his shoulders.

“Oh!” he said nervously. “Crowley, love! You’re back! I didn’t see you there!” He stood up with his back to the desk, hiding the contents from view. 

“Why’re you upset?” Crowley asked, worried. “Has something happened?”

“No, no, nothing like that. Just thinking over some old memories, got myself a little worked up, I’m afraid. I’m fine!” He gestured to the back room. “Shall we go make some more tea? Mine’s gotten quite cold.” 

Crowley narrowed his eyes. “No, thanks, I’m fine. What’s all that?” he asked, pointing at the desk. 

“Correspondence,” the angel said lamely. “Nothing important.”

“Nothing important that has you crying at your desk at eleven in the morning?” Crowley said, arms crossed. “’fess up, angel. What’s going on?”

Aziraphale sighed petulantly. “Well if you must know I was reading through old letters. From a friend. And they’re quite sad.” 

“What friend?” 

Aziraphale just shrugged. 

“What friend?” Crowley insisted. 

Aziraphale huffed. “Oh if you must know they’re from Oscar. I came across them this morning, haven’t read them in years.” 

Ah, Crowley frowned, that explains it. Old Oscar. The demon tried to bite it back, he really did, but he couldn’t help himself. 

“Sitting here crying over your old love, angel?” he said bitterly. “That seems a bit maudlin, doesn’t it?” 

Aziraphale glared at him. “We weren’t lovers.” 

Crowley wasn’t sure if he believed him. At a minimum, Wilde had definitely been a flirtation, if nothing else. He suspected a bit more had occurred than the angel was willing to admit. It was his own fault for missing that century, but that didn’t make it any easier to bear that the angel had had feelings for someone else. 

“I’ve heard that story before,” Crowley said, kicking himself mentally even as he couldn’t stop the words from coming out of his mouth. This was an old and tired argument and he couldn’t believe he was starting it when the angel was clearly upset. 

“Not,” Aziraphale said with increasing testiness, “that I have to explain myself to you, dear. You chose to sleep through that century and if I took comfort in someone else that’s no one’s fault but yours.”

“Oh really, now, is it?” Crowley snapped. “Because I was away from you lots of times for decades and even centuries and I never ‘took comfort’—” he paused to make the appropriate air quotes “—in some human.” 

“And if you had it would have been just fine,” Aziraphale snarled back, standing up and taking a step towards him. He looked frighteningly cross. “I certainly wouldn’t be bullying you about it a hundred and thirty years later, you overbearing –”

The angel cut himself off, just in time to prevent whatever insult had been about to escape his lips. Instead Crowley watched as Aziraphale’s face shuttered closed and he set about straightening his coat, waistcoat, and cuffs, which he knew from long experience was always a defensive move. 

“Pardon me,” Aziraphale said formally. “I’m going out.” And he brushed by Crowley and was out the door before the demon could even form a thought. 

“Shit,” the demon said to the room around him. “Shit, shit, shit.”

He took one last look at the pile of envelopes on the desk and then walked away, avoiding temptation like any proper demon would certainly not do, and went upstairs to sulk at his own idiocy. 

++

He received a text a while later.

> A: Read the letters, if you want.

> C: I don’t have to, angel.

> A: I want you to.

> C: Come home.

> A: Read them.

Crowley, reluctant but intrigued, went back downstairs and sat down at the desk, where several things became immediately apparent to him. 

One, the majority of envelopes spread out across the desk were from him, and they had obviously been handled frequently from the crumpled, soft edges of the envelopes and the worn corners. 

Two, there were a small pile of objects scattered among the letters that he recognized. A black feather he knew was his. An oyster shell. An old hankerchief with a small snake embroidered on it. An old wax sealing ring with his insignia on it. Things of his. 

Three, there were only a few open letters, perhaps six in total, and they appeared quite crisp in comparison to everything else. He took a moment to sort them into chronological order and began reading. 

When he finished, his thoughts were spinning. The letters were mostly sad. The first two were flirtatious, yes, but Aziraphale’s friend mostly wrote to him about his despair in prison, about the friends who had abandoned him after he was disgraced and ruined, about the loves who turned against him, about his poverty and poor health in France. The last letter, terribly short and brutal, discussed his failing strength and impending death in a dingy hotel room with dismal wallpaper and few comforts. He thanked Aziraphale for his friendship and begged him to remember him. 

And then the letters stopped. 

_I am an ass,_ Crowley thought. 

Aziraphale showed up about thirty minutes later, looking drawn. Crowley met him at the door, helped him out of his coat and gently led him to the couch. 

“I’m sorry, angel,” he said. “It doesn’t matter what he was to you. I’m going to stop with this whole routine, okay?” 

Aziraphale sniffed, clearly not quite ready to forgive. “We shall see, shan’t we?” 

“The letters were really sad,” Crowley admitted. “Not what I expected. And there weren’t very many of them.” 

“No.” 

Chilly, still, Crowley thought. 

“Doesn’t look like you’d read them much," he commented gently, still trying to find a way to open up a conversation. "They were all crisp, compared to the other ones.” 

That seemed to work a little. 

"No," Aziraphale admitted. "I haven’t read them often. It’s hard to see the downward spiral of someone who was brilliant and full of life.” He flushed and looked as if he’d said too much, and Crowley saw him tense up again. 

“I can see that,” Crowley said softly. He was going to be good if it killed him. If the angel wanted to reminisce about how wonderfully and sensitively Oscar _kissed_ he was going to sit here and be supportive, even if he had to stab himself in the hand with a fork to let the feelings out later. Because honestly, the angel was right. It didn't _matter_. 

Aziraphale relaxed fractionally and took a breath. 

Crowley steeled himself to offer the first positive comment he had ever made about Mr. Wilde in recorded history. “He’s… he’s interesting. And I can see that he cared for you.” 

Aziraphale looked at him consideringly. “He did.” 

“Well then, he wasn’t a complete idiot, was he?” Crowley said with a smile. 

Aziraphale cracked a small smile back and the room thawed considerably. 

“Want some cocoa?” Crowley asked. “I’ve got those fancy marshmallows that are shaped like squares and those peppermint spoons that dissolve.” 

“Oh,” the angel breathed. “That does sound nice! Thank you, dear.” 

Crowley wandered off to the kitchen, quietly magicking both of the things he had just mentioned (and which he did not, in fact, have) into existence as he went, and set about making the best Belgian cocoa he could, then setting it up on a lovely tray with a flower and a plate of biscuits. He was going to spend the rest of the day being exceedingly nice to his angel. 

Aziraphale watched carefully as the demon left the room, then went over to the desk and straightened up the pile of letters and objects. He slid them back into the compartment and sealed it quietly before Crowley could return and note its existence. It gave him a small thrill of satisfaction to do so. 

He thanked the lord he hadn’t also gotten out the admiring letters from Noel Coward and Truman Capote. 

The demon didn’t have to know everything, after all.


	23. Prompt: Photographs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale waves throughout history. Crowley mostly worries.

Crowley walked into the shop one morning and slapped a book down on the desk. Aziraphale only got a glimpse of the cover but it seemed to be a coffee table book of key historical photos from the last century. 

The demon flipped it open to a page he’d already bookmarked and looked at the angel expectantly. 

“What are you on about?” said Aziraphale, honestly confused.

“Take a look.”

Aziraphale leaned in and examined the page. On it was a large black and white photograph. “Oh yes,” he said, academically. “I recognize that! It’s a picture of the train they used when they signed the Armistice of 1918, near the end of the Great War.” He looked up at Crowley expectantly. 

“Not that,” Crowley said, leaning in and grabbing the magnifying glass that the angel always kept on the desk. “This!” 

Crowley pointed at one of the small windows of the train behind the group of important-looking men standing beside it. Through the magnifying glass, you could see the faintest hint of a man with what appeared to be shockingly white hair, sitting in a seat on the train, his hands primly folded in his lap. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, embarrassed. “Well, you see, I happened to be there that day and of course I didn’t want to be part of the group on the stairs, so I thought I had hidden myself away inside the train. I had no idea you could see me so clearly!”

“Uh huh,” the demon said dubiously, and turned back another dozen or so pages. “And this one?” 

Aziraphale glanced at the page. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

Crowley stabbed a finger at the picture of Teddy Roosevelt, waving from a car during his inaugural parade in 1905. A few family members are in the backseat and in the background, blending in for once somewhat inconspicuously with the background of onlookers on the street, is the angel. 

“So, I was there! Hundreds of people were there!” Aziraphale said archly. “Why is that a problem?”

Crowley frowned at him and continued flipping through the book. He pointed out the angel in the background as the Wright brothers took off at Kittyhawk, at the first meeting of the League of Nations, watching the inauguration of King George VI, celebrating at the end of the Spanish Civil War… He wasn’t obvious in any of the photographs, but once you knew what to look for, that shockingly bright hair really stood out against the sea of dark hair and hats. 

“There’s literally NO way this is all by accident,” Crowley said, fixing Aziraphale with a look. 

“Oh all _right_,” Aziraphale sighed. “The truth is – well, for a while I made a hobby of, well, trying to end up in as many important historic photographs as I could. It was just for a lark.”

Crowley gave him a blank, disbelieving stare. “Angel, these could be dangerous to you! What if someone other than me figures out that you’ve been in all these important moments, essentially unchanged, through history?”

“Oh, I think that’s rather unlikely.”

“It’s very likely, since a large number of them seem to be gathered up in this particular book!” Crowley said. 

“My dear, no one actually _looks_ at coffee table books,” Aziraphale said soothingly. “It’s probably the safest place these pictures could have ended up.” 

Crowley ignored that ridiculous statement. “This,” he said direly, “is how conspiracy theories start. No, this is how witch hunts start. And you have lived through enough actual witch hunts to know better!”

Aziraphale blushed a little. Crowley didn’t really seem to be angry, it was more that he was worried, and worried always turned into these type of chiding lectures. Aziraphale didn’t enjoy being lectured, even (or especially) when he knew the demon was probably right. It hadn’t occurred to him at the time that all of these pictures could end up being collected somewhere together, or that they would even survive their time period. Who knew that photography wasn’t just a flash in the pan? 

“Well, I do think you’re overreacting,” he finally said carefully, “but I suppose you have a point. Anyway, I gave it up in the 1950s. So, for all intents and purposes, no one will find me in the background of major events after the first half of the century.”

Crowley looked suspicious. “You just… gave it up?”

“Hrm?” the angel tried to look innocent.

“Why did you stop? What happened?”

Aziraphale blew a lock of hair out of his eyes and squirmed for a minute, then remembered that he was supposed to just tell the truth these days. That was unfortunate and rather annoying. “I ended up getting photographed with Elvis in a picture that made the front page of several magazines, and Above caught wind of it and told me to keep a lower profile.”

Crowley laughed in spite of himself. “Well that’s just about the first time I can say I agree with Upstairs on something in the last several centuries. Elvis???” 

“It was an accident,” the angel said primly. 

“Accident my ass,” the demon returned. He sighed and closed the book. “You have to be more careful. People do notice these things. How do you know there isn’t already a Web page out there about this mysterious white-haired man who always dresses like a Victorian?”

Aziraphale looked a bit delighted by that idea. “Oh, goodness, do you think there is?” he breathed. “Can we look? I wonder if they have a code name for me.” 

Crowley rolled his eyes so hard it almost hurt. “Angel, if there is a web page out there about you, that is NOT a good thing. We want to be inconspicuous, remember? Not attract any of the wrong kind of attention?”

Aziraphale turned in the desk chair blinked big sad eyes up at Crowley in a way they both knew was generally like kryptonite to the demon. “Oh, dear, don’t be cross! It was just a game I played for a while to amuse myself. No harm was really done.”

Crowley pursed his lips as he looked down at his soft, adorable angel, trying to remain firm. “A _foolish_game.”

“Perhaps,” the angel said, a sly glint entering his eye. “But in my defense, I was largely left unsupervised. I didn’t see you at all between our fight about holy water and the day you showed up at the church in the 1940s. 

“This is _my_ fault?” 

“Well,” Aziraphale said, with an extra few blinks of his long lashes, “I was bored! And there was no one around to stop me.” 

Crowley sighed fondly. “You’re so spoiled, angel.” 

Aziraphale smiled at him. “You made me this way.” 

Crowley ran a hand through his hair until it was thoroughly sticking up in all directions, and then gave up the pretense of irritation all together. 

“I _am_ sorry my dear,” Aziraphale said, standing up and walking over to slip an arm around Crowley’s waist. “We’re on the same page now about the low profile thing, I promise. That was just a different time, a different set of circumstances.” He snugged in and leaned his head on the demon’s shoulder. 

The demon softened and raised an arm to hug back. “All right, all right,” he said. “Bygones, I suppose.” 

Aziraphale gave him an appreciative kiss on the cheek. 

“Can we check, though?” Aziraphale said brightly. “To see if there’s a web page?” 

Crowley laughed. “Sure. I’ll help you look.” 

Aziraphale smiled delightedly and headed for the back room to fire up his ancient computer. Crowley stopped for a minute before he joined him to pick up the book and run upstairs to tuck it away in a special trunk where he kept important things away from prying eyes. 

There was no way he wasn’t going to hang onto something that was essentially a photo album of the decades they’d once spent apart.

With the book safely secreted away, he squared his shoulders and headed back down to come up with the most ridiculously teasing search terms he could think of for Aziraphale’s search. He had promised to help, after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might have borrowed this idea from a brief mention during the 11th Doctor's years on Doctor Who. :) Also, I've been dying to have Aziraphale use the line, "In my defense, I was left unsupervised." Heh. 
> 
> The angel's role in this story was originally going to be Crowley's but for some reason it just rewrote itself this way. And of the two, I think Aziraphale is more likely to get lonely and up to what seems like innocent fun but with the potential for ramifications. Or at least, Crowley KNOWS when he's causing trouble and Aziraphale often doesn't. 
> 
> I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	24. Prompt: Tattoo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale accidentally reveals something he's kept hidden.

It was a lazy Sunday morning, and for once Aziraphale was fighting against his natural tendency to hop out of bed at the crack of dawn. He was trying his best to linger. Moreover, he was trying NOT to, as the demon was fond of putting it, “prance downstairs in an insanely perky mood, practically sprinkling rainbows behind him as he went.”

Crowley was not a morning person. 

Aziraphale rolled over onto his side and found Crowley awake and staring up at the ceiling with a sleep-grizzled look on his face. He rolled over and kissed him, and then flopped back down and ran a hand over Crowley’s hair, smoothing it out of its morning tangles with a little divine intervention. He found his fingers drawn to Crowley’s snake tattoo, tracing its coils. 

“Did it hurt?” he asked quietly. 

“Did what hurt?” the demon replied. 

“Getting the snake tattoo,” Aziraphale said. “I mean, did you have to _get_ it tattooed or did it just show up of its own accord when you fell?”

Crowley frowned a little. It wasn’t something he really liked talking about, falling, and the angel usually respected that. “It just showed up,” he said, somewhat begrudgingly, “as part of the general dive. As for whether it hurt – can’t really say. Everything hurt, then. Hurt isn’t even the right word! It’s hard, when your burning up on every physical and metaphysical plane of existence, to track any of it down and determine if part of it is coming from your right temple, you know?”

Aziraphale sucked in a breath, realizing his error. “I’m sorry, my dear, that was a stupid question.” 

“S’okay,” the demon said. “Why do you ask though? You don’t usually ask me about … that.”

“I was just wondering if it was painful to get, that’s all.”

Crowley grinned. “Are you thinking of getting a tattoo, angel?”

Aziraphale smiled wryly. “Oh, no, I don’t think I’d ever get another one. I was just wondering how Hell did their tattoos and if it was any less bad than the human way.”

Crowley sat up and looked suddenly and completely awake. “ANOTHER ONE?” he exclaimed. “What do you mean another one?”

Aziraphale gasped and hopped out of the bed. “Oh, would you look at the time?” he said. “Must be going!” 

He all but bolted down the stairs, miracling himself a comfy robe as he did so. Crowley followed hot on his heels. 

“You have a tattoo, angel? Why haven’t I seen it?” 

Aziraphale waved a hand behind him in a disparaging manner and continued a fast march to the kitchen, where he set about setting out the kettle and tea things as loudly as he could, as if it were possible, ever, to truly drown the demon out when he wanted to be heard.

“Angel” Crowley sing-songed, sitting right smack on top of the breakfast table. “Angel. AngelangelangelangelangelangelANGEL -- ”

“Oh good grief!” the angel said, whirling around to face him with a tea cannister in his hand. “Yes, I have a tattoo. No, you can’t see it. I keep it out of sight nowadays. No, I don’t want to talk about it. Done.” 

“Aw, angel,” the demon whined. “Come on, don’t keep secrets from me. What kind of tattoo?”

“The permanent kind,” the angel replied prissily. “Made from ink.” 

“Show me?” 

“No, I will not.”

“Show me?”

“No.”

“Show me!” 

“Crowley, you need to – no.” 

The demon thought for a moment. “Okay,” he said slowly. “How about a wager?”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Because that’s worked out so well for us in the past. You remember that bet we made about not using miracles?”

Crowley grinned. “That was FUN, angel. But this is nothing like that. Hear me out.”

The angel sighed and sat down at the table, fingers steepled in front of him. “What do you propose?” 

“How about if I can guess what it is, you have to show it to me?”

Aziraphale considered it. “All right,” he said, “but you don’t get unlimited guesses. I’m willing to give you ten chances.”

“S’not enough,” the demon protested. “How about fifty?”

Aziraphale scoffed. “Fifteen.”

Crowley gave him a winning smirk. “Forty?”

The angel narrowed his eyes. “Twelve.”

“Okay, fifteen it is.” 

“And if you lose?”

Crowley smiled. “Then you can ask for one favor, anything you like.”

“Done.”

++

To Aziraphale’s surprise, Crowley appeared to let it go, at least for the moment. Instead, he kept his distance while Aziraphale opened up the shop and attended to customers for the morning. Instead of pestering him, the demon spent ages messing around on his phone, and seemed to be making a list of something on a small pad of paper. He looked up once in a while and smiled at the angel in a way that made him nervous, before returning to whatever he was doing. 

The minute the last customer was ushered out and the angel closed the shop for lunch, Crowley pounced. 

“All right, angel,” he announced, “I have a few guesses.” 

Aziraphale sighed and pulled out some good French bread and fine salted ham he’d stored away to make sandwiches with. He grabbed himself a plate and began working on putting a nice meal together for himself. 

“Yes, yes, go ahead,” he said, when he noticed that the demon was actually waiting for his permission to start. 

“Okay,” said the demon, consulting his notepad. “Is it a heart?” 

Aziraphale smiled and occupied himself spreading butter on the bread. “No, it is not,” he replied.

The demon made some kind of annotation. “Is it a book?”

“I can see why you’d suspect that, but no, it isn’t.” 

The angel added several nicely folded pieces of ham, then picked it up and had a small nibble.

“Hrm,” said Crowley. “Is it a wing or wings?” 

“No,” Aziraphale said reproachfully. “I’m already an angel, what would I need with an angel wing tattoo? That’s just ridiculous.” 

Crowley thought for a few minutes, making multiple notations on the paper he was holding. He crossed a few things out and scribbled a few words. 

“A snake?”

“No.”

“Is it a word or a phrase?” Crowley asked. 

Aziraphale took another bite and took his sweet time chewing, swallowing, and daintily dabbing the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “Oh, you got me,” he said dramatically. 

“Really??” 

“No, of course not,” the angel grinned. “How could I narrow it down to just one?”

Crowley frowned. 

“You’re going through your queries rather quickly, my dear,” Aziraphale said. “Perhaps you should give it more thought.” 

Crowley decided to take him up on it.

++

Crowley continued to guess all day. A peace symbol, a dove, a star, the word “Mom” (for which he was hit in the face with a pillow), a piece of cake (a rather good guess, actually, the angel thought). He frowned with each wrong answer, reminded the angel several times that he couldn’t lie, and then went back to his research for another hour or two before coming back with more guesses. 

His final five guesses were more whimsical. A hot air balloon. (Why? The angel thought.) A flaming sword. (No, but even the angel had to admit that would be somewhat interesting.) A top hat from his magic act. Dog. A halo. 

Each was met with a firm and resounding no. 

“All right, angel,” Crowley said, finally. “I give up. I admit defeat. You have a tattoo and I am never going to get to see it, I accept that. Although why you have a tattoo that you keep completely hidden and won’t even show to me, I will never understand.”

“Well,” Aziraphale said, “it’s just that it’s somewhat embarrassing.” 

He’d gotten the tattoo in a fit of drunkenness in the 1920s, when he’d been quite sure he’d never see Crowley again and his friends from the late 1800s were mostly gone. As a result, he found himself at loose ends. He’d had much time to replay their last argument about the holy water, and Aziraphale felt, in retrospect, that he’d said things that might actually be unforgivable. In the angel’s world, up to that time, forgiveness was a thing he’d rarely seen put into practice. The archangels certainly weren’t a forgiving lot. Gabriel and Michael, he was sure, would lord over him until the day he died each and everything poorly-considered statement and impulsive action he’d ever taken in his life, apologies and intentions be damned. Hell certainly wasn’t forgiving either. And humanity? Well they varied. But he’d decided true forgiveness was rare. 

Which is why, at the time, he’d decided that his spat with Crowley at St. James and the estrangement it had caused since was probably permanent. After all, he hadn’t seen the demon since, in almost fifty years.

Until the church, when Crowley came to save him, and he realized that the demon had forgiven him long ago. 

“Embarrassing?” Crowley said. “Come on, now, I’d put my entire net worth down on the bet that it’s probably incredibly sexy.” 

Aziraphale blushed. “I highly doubt that.”

“Angel,” Crowley said, his voice a little gravelly. “Everything about you is sexy, to me.” 

Aziraphale’s heart fluttered a little, and he suddenly couldn’t remember why it was so important to him to hide this secret anymore. Crowley was looking at him with utmost sincerity, and there something so deeply romantic about that – about his snarky, defensive, highly-choreographed demon, who was always thinking about how he appeared to the world, just sitting in front of him with the walls dropped down. Crowley let this self out for no one but him, he knew. 

A hot rush of love flooded over him, and he covered it up as best he could with brusqueness. Old habits die hard. 

“Oh, all right, you unmitigated bother,” he said, letting a little flash of humor show in his eyes to belie his words. “You want to see my tattoo? You really want to see?”

Crowley, surprised, nodded wordlessly, his head moving very fast. The demon watched, wide-eyed with shock, as the angel carefully took off his coat and waistcoat and slowly folded them over the back of his desk chair. He then meticulously unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled his shirt sleeves up above the elbows. Crowley could feel his pupils widening. Something about watching buttoned-up Aziraphale roll up his sleeves was an element that had transfixed him in numerous fantasies over the years. He had, in the end, decided he was an utter chump, to be so overcome by a glimpse of angelic forearm. He had also decided that there was absolutely nothing he could do about it and that he might as well enjoy the feeling. 

This decision had worked rather well for him, to date. 

The angel came back to the couch and sat down next to the demon, facing him, and very close. 

“Don’t laugh,” Aziraphale said. “Promise me?”

“I won’t, angel,” Crowley said hoarsely. “Promise.”

Aziraphale laid his right forearm on Crowley’s knee and turned his hand face up so that the underside of his forearm was exposed. He pushed the sleeve up a little further and laid a finger on the pale, unmarked, impossibly-soft skin right below the inside of his elbow. 

“It’s right here,” he said, “although I keep it glamoured away. Are you ready?” He looked up at Crowley, who nodded quietly. And with a wave of his hand, he released the glamour keeping it smooth and covered. 

A small, perfect dark feather appeared, its colors shimmering between black and sapphire blue and a hint of purple, beautifully iridescent. A small bit of fluff near the bottom of the shaft softened it, and it was slightly curled as if it were drifting on a breeze.

Crowley stared at it wide-eyed and tried to make his brain function. “Ngk,” he finally offered. 

“You can see why I had to cover it,” Aziraphale said kindly, trying to help him recover. “Can’t walk around with a demon feather tattooed on my arm.” 

“Wh- wh- “ Crowley cleared his throat. “Is it mine? When did you get it?” 

“Yes, it’s yours. 1922, I believe. Had it recolored later, though, when the equipment improved.

“Why?” Crowley asked, genuinely puzzled. 

“I missed you.” Aziraphale had long since given up any hope of maintaining his dignity in this conversation, so he decided there was no point in obfuscating. 

“You missed me.”

“Yes, I did,” Aziraphale said. “It had been almost half a century at that point. Didn’t figure you were ever coming back, and one night I had a little too much absinthe and decided to get a feather tattooed on my arm to remind me of you.” 

“That seems… unlike you,” the demon said slowly. 

“Well, absinthe can make a man do dangerous things,” Aziraphale admitted. “But even though I’ve mostly kept it covered ever since, I’ve – well, I’ve liked having it there. Even when we weren’t together. It felt like I could have a little part of you with me. My only real friend.”

Crowley ran a finger very gently around the edges of the feather, tracing its contours closely. 

“S’beautiful, angel,” he said, voice husky with emotion. “I fucking love it.” 

Aziraphale smiled, and when Crowley looked up to meet his eyes, the demon’s eyes were a little red around the edges. 

“I’m glad,” he said. “Maybe I’ll just leave it on the surface, then, for now. If that’s all right with you, that is?”

“Please!” the demon answered. “I wish you would.”

“All right then,” the angel said, sounding pleased. 

“Only I get to see it, though, angel,” the demon said, a possessive glint in his eyes. “That’s just for you and me.”

“My dear, I don’t think there’s another person on this planet who’s even seen so much as my wrist in the last thousand years. What do you think, I’m going to go sunbathing? For heaven’s sake!” 

Crowley grinned. “Well, I wouldn’t have thought so, but then again I wouldn’t have thought you’d have a tattoo, either. Who knows what you might do next? Might just take up streaking through the park on Saturday mornings, mightn’t you? I wouldn’t be entirely surprised.” 

Aziraphale huffed and dumped a blanket over the demon’s head, then went off to make more tea. And to consider what kind of favor he should claim for winning the wager. There were so many interesting possibilities to consider, and he planned to carefully think through them all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't tell you how tempted I was to give him the most ridiculous tattoo, like a little image of a UFO or something, but the angel does have his standards, you know. :) Anyways, this is where the characters went with the scenario I gave them, and I blame only them.


	25. Prompt: Pet Names

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley issues an invitation he later regrets. But honestly, he should have known better. This _is_ Aziraphale he's dealing with, after all.

“Anthony,” the angel called desperately from the kitchen one evening just before dinner. “Can you please come give me a hand with this pan?”

Crowley blinked slowly and pushed himself to his feet. He sauntered into the kitchen and quickly rescued the pan in question from a perilous stack of dishes the angel was somehow holding all at once, just before it toppled.

“Anthony??” he said. “Since when do you call me Anthony?”

Aziraphale shrugged. “Simply trying something new!” 

“Well don’t,” Crowley said with distaste evident on his face. “Don’t call me Anthony.”

“Whyever not? It’s your name, after all.”

“You usually only call me that if I’m in trouble and you’re using my full name,” the demon answered. “Plus Anthony is for humans. Crawly is for hell. Crowley is just for you.”

Aziraphale had to smile at that. He rather like the idea of having their own names for each other, their own language. They already had one, really, in their shared, long history, their inside jokes and historical references no one else could possibly understand. They had an immense repertoire of gestures that only the other understood, and a deep understanding of postures and body language and tone that could only develop over centuries. It was intimate, and he found it delightful.

Still, he thought, this refusal couldn’t go without comment. 

“So,” he asked pertly. “What terms of endearment am I allowed, then?” 

Crowley thought for a moment. 

“Well ‘stud’ is always welcome,” he said. “As is ‘sex machine’.”

“I am NOT calling you ‘sex machine.’” Aziraphale chided.

“Well not _yet_,” Crowley mumbled under his breath. He still had a few tricks up his sleeve. 

Aziraphale pointedly ignored that comment. 

“Well I don’t know, do I, what you’ll find acceptable to say?” Crowley said. “Why don’t you just try some out and I’ll let you know on a case-by-case basis?”

Aziraphale smiled. _Sometimes the demon just made things too easy_, he thought. 

“That sounds very reasonable, my dear,” he said placidly. And then he looked expectantly at the demon, eyebrows raised. 

It took Crowley a minute to catch on. “Oh please,” he said, “’my dear’ doesn’t even count – you’ve been calling me that for at least the last 500 years.”

“Ah, that’s true,” Aziraphale said. “I’ll just have to be a little more creative, won’t I?”

For just a moment, the angel thought he saw a look of nervousness in the demon’s eye. Then he smiled and shrugged it off.

The poor fool.

++

The angel tried the first ones out when they were in a wine shop. Crowley was trawling the shelves looking for hidden treasures, and Aziraphale was chatting with the lovely and knowledgeable proprietor, who eventually was persuaded to bring out an interesting bottle of reserved brandy to offer them a small taste.

“Crowley, sweetums,” Aziraphale called in a syrupy voice. “Come over here – you need to try this!”

Crowley flushed and ignored him. _Oh great_, he thought. _Here we go. _

The angel modulated his voice to be louder and carry across the shop. “Honey buns, really you don’t want to miss this brandy!” 

If Crowley wasn’t mistaken, a few of the other shoppers looked around in amusement, and he was sure he heard a giggle somewhere to his left. 

The demon heaved a sigh and made his way to the counter. 

“Ah, here he is,” said Aziraphale fondly. “My sweet baboo.”

Crowley glared, then turned to the shop owner. “Hit me,” he said. “Please. I need alcohol, stat.”

Aziraphale wriggled in amusement. 

The little prick, Crowley thought.

“By the way,” Crowley said sotto voce. “It’s a no on all three of those.”

Aziraphale shrugged. “Whatever you say, dearest.” 

That one could stay.

++

He waited almost another twenty-four hours before he tried again. This time they were at a café down the block where they liked to have breakfast because of the astonishingly good French toast. Aziraphale made his way to their usual table, which the staff knew to keep clear for them on Monday and Thursday mornings around ten. As they were seated, a waitress came over to take their drink orders. 

“I’ll have a caramel latte, please,” Aziraphale said. “And my schmoopie over here will have a cappuccino with extra milk.” 

The waitress grinned and headed off to get their beverages. 

“Schmoopie?” Crowley hissed. 

“Don’t like that one either?” Aziraphale said. “Oh dear.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Must you always toy with me like this, angel?”

Aziraphale blinked innocently. “You _told_ me to try out some names.”

“I don’t believe for one second that you really want to call me any of these ridiculous terms,” Crowley said, leaning back in his chair and looking ruffled. 

“Oh now, don’t be like that.” Aziraphale said consolingly. “You know you’re my best boo, after all.” 

“I am NO ONE’S BOO!” Crowley shouted. Conversation died down for a moment while Crowley slowly reddened, and then it picked back up to its prior dull roar. 

“Your drinks!” the waitress said, setting two large cups in front of them. “Ready to order?”

Crowley leapt in to take charge of this part of the interaction, hoping to cut Aziraphale off at the pass. “We’ll both have the French toast. Extra berries for me, extra whip for him.” 

“And bacon!” Aziraphale added. “He’s always forgetting the bacon, the silly poppet.” 

“I. Am. Not. A. Poppet.” Crowley growled under his breath as the waitress walked away. 

“Yes dear,” Aziraphale said serenely. He picked up his latte and, with his pinkie finger crooked out just so, took a dainty sip. 

Crowley studied him from across the table. “How about ‘mack daddy’?” he suggested. 

Aziraphale chortled. “No one calls their loved one mack daddy. What does that even mean? How about ‘cupcake’?”

Crowley made a wretching sound. “I’ll accept ‘babe’.” 

“Not a chance – I mean really, can you see me saying ‘babe’? Have you met me?” Aziraphale thought for a moment. “How do you feel about ‘pet’?”

Crowley stuck out his tongue. “How do you feel about ‘you’re an arse’?”

Aziraphale huffed. “Well aren’t you just a treasure,” he said sourly. 

“That’s off the list too.”

Aziraphale offered a rude gesture, which to both their relief was completely nonverbal. 

++

That night, they lay in front of the fireplace wrapped in a blanket, Aziraphale laying small, lazy kisses on Crowley’s shoulder as they considered dozing off there instead of going all the way up the stairs to bed. 

“That was just lovely, my dear,” he whispered to Crowley. 

“Was,” Crowley agreed, nuzzling closer. 

“My heart,” Aziraphale murmured. “My sun. My Northern star.” 

Crowley opened one golden eye and looked up at him. “I may just be lulled into complacency with post-coital bliss, but I can’t say I really mind any of those, angel.”

“Finally!” the angel said with a gentle smile. “My darling,” he said with another kiss to the top of the demon’s head. “My beloved.” Another kiss. “My own.”

Crowley smiled contentedly without opening his eyes. “Yes, those are fine too.” 

“Wonderful!” Aziraphale said. “I think we’ve made some real progress, here. Well done!” 

Crowley uttered a yawn almost big enough to crack his head in half. “Yeah, yeah,” he said, “enough discovery for one day. Let’s go to bed, angel, before you have to carry me there, bridal style.” 

Aziraphale stood up and offered his hand. “Come along, then, cupcake.” 

Crowley considered objecting, but in the end decided it was best to just let it go. No point in encouraging this any further.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, honestly, I just chortled through this entire segment as I wrote it (in a public coffee shop, no less; I got quite a few strange looks.)   
I hope it's funny to someone other than me, but even if not, I regret nothing. :)


	26. Prompt: Coffee Shop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley decides to cut loose, for once.

Crowley and coffee had a complicated relationship. 

For one, while Crowley loved coffee, he didn’t love it the way demons are supposed to. A proper demon drinks his coffee black, strong as night, and as bitter and unpleasant as his or her soul. No proper demon would ever wander into a global coffee chain and order a unicorn frappiccino, no matter how much they might want that pink and blue powder, mango syrup, and blue drizzle. He or she would be laughed out of Hell, and quite possibly investigated rather thoroughly to see if they were losing their evil edge. 

This particular demon, however, had a problem in that he couldn’t stand black coffee. He much preferred sweet drinks to bitter, and the more syrup the better. This was a fact he hid from nearly everyone, ordering it black then discreetly adding at least six packets of sugar to each cup. What he really wanted, though, was a caramel macchiato or two, or six. 

Crowley’s second problem with coffee was coffee shops themselves. He had long since taken credit with Below for helping to create ever-present and overpriced coffee shops. Hell begrudgingly accepted his claims and issued a commendation for making every day life for city dwellers around the globe just a little more irritating and pretentious, and for making it even harder for people to find a decent cup of coffee when they needed it. 

Whatever his role in the very beginnings of the movement, Crowley did have a hand in the early development of a particular Seattle coffee chain that had gained worldwide prominence, particularly with convincing the founders to burn their beans and produce bitter, odd-tasting coffee that few people really liked and everyone had to have. He then exerted some influence to have them scatter their shops across all areas of the globe, with an especial view towards opening them a) near lovely historical monuments and b) directly across the street from, or sometimes nearly inside of, another local coffee shop. 

Crowley sat back and laughed as he watched fancy coffee mania take over the entire globe, from high school students through old people. 

This had the added advantage of leaving the more artful, extremely small, authentic local coffee shops to people like him and Aziraphale. 

They were sitting inside one such place now, a tiny, book-filled coffee shop in London’s Notting Hill district, where the coffee was lovely and hipsters were not allowed. There was no wi-fi whatsoever, a problem Crowley circumvented by just believing his phone would work regardless, and there were no tiny little tables for people to attempt to balance a laptop and a coffee cup on. Instead, there were comfortable, well-worn upholstered chairs, coffee served only in a mismatched collection of mugs, and no international-corporate presence whatsoever. 

“What would you like, dear?” Aziraphale asked as Crowley stalked off to claim the two most comfortable armchairs with the best view of the street. 

“Oh, you know, the usual –” Crowley called as he laid his jacket on one seat and occupied the other. 

“Black drip then?” 

“Yeah,” he said distractedly. “Wait, no.” 

Aziraphale turned towards him. “But that’s what you always have!”

“No,” Crowley said, “that’s what I’m _supposed_ to have.” 

Aziraphale made a ‘just a moment’ gesture to the proprietor and came over to sit down for a moment. “Supposed to have? Says who?” 

“Hell!” Crowley said. “Demons drink their coffee black. It’s kind of a thing. If you order something fluffy and sugary and anyone sees you, there’s going to be talk.” 

Aziraphale made a show of looking around. “I don’t see anyone here who might be reporting on you,” he said slowly. “So why don’t you just get whatever you really want?” 

Crowley froze, but then he smiled. “You’re right! Why the bloody hell not. It’s not like I even work for them anymore! No reason I shouldn’t get whatever I want."

Aziraphale waved his arm at the front counter and Crowley took the hint and sauntered vaguely towards the barista, who welcomed him with a smile. 

“I want,” he said, “your most sugary, excessive, over-the-top drink. No amount of whip cream or syrup is too much.” 

The barista blinked at him for a moment. “What kind of syrup do you want, sir,” she asked. “We have caramel, coconut, chocolate, hazelnut, raspberry, mango–”

“Yes,” he said quickly. “All of those.” 

Aziraphale made a strange sort of coughing noise behind him and touched him gently on the shoulder. “My dear, those might not all go together, perhaps you should start smaller and work your way –”

“—I know what I’m doing, angel,” Crowley said, “trust me.” 

“How many shots of espresso do you want?” the woman asked hesitantly. 

Crowley frowned and thought. “Let’s start with six,” he said. “And whip cream please. And what are your drizzle options?”

“We – we have caramel, chocolate, and peppermint.”

“Sounds good,” he said. “Any sprinkles?” 

The woman was visibly pale, as was Aziraphale. “Y-yes,” she said, looking a little frightened. 

“Perfect! Oh, and extra hot,” he added, before smiling at a rather sick-looking Aziraphale and ambling back to his chair. 

“I’m so sorry,” he heard Aziraphale say behind him. “Please make him whatever that was, I will pay double, and just a flat white for me, please.” 

Crowley drummed the table anxiously while awaiting his drink. Aziraphale watched him be generally jittery and wondered how much worse he was going to get after he consumed the coffee equivalent of a pound-bag of sugar. 

Aziraphale smiled at him. “You really commit when you make a decision, don’t you?”

Crowley smirked at him. “I’m good at decisions.” 

“I’m aware,” the angel said fondly. 

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of one small flat white in a gorgeous white cup with roses on it, and one immense monstrosity in the largest mug the proprietor had been able to find, which oddly enough had santa claus on it. It was topped with an immense pile of whip cream, both chocolate and colored sprinkles, and drizzles of at least four different colors. 

“Looks perfect,” Crowley said, “thank you!” And with that, he set right into consuming it. 

++

An hour later, Crowley was singing a different tune. 

“Oh angel, that was a bad, bad decision,” he moaned, clutching his stomach. “Why did you let me do that? I feel like my stomach is going to explode!” 

“Well my dear, you were so excited about it! I didn’t want to get in the way of your fun.” 

Crowley shook a finger weakly at the angel. “Loved ones don’t let loved ones mix peppermint syrup with mango, Aziraphale!” 

Aziraphale made a sad face. “So, I should have stopped you?” 

The demon sighed. “I don’t know. Probably would’ve annoyed me at the time. But look –” he held out his hand. “My hands are shaking. I think I’m going to discorporate! You should be taking better care of me!”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “That’s the six shots of espresso and the twelve pounds of sugar you just consumed, dear.” He sat down on the couch with his demon and pulled him over so he was laying down with his head on Aziraphale’s lap. “Just try to relax. Maybe sleep it off.” 

“I CAN’T SLEEP I JUST HAD SIX SHOTS OF ESPRESSO AND A WHOLE BAG OF SUGAR!”

The angel laughed softly and stroked Crowley’s hair. “You’ll survive it, my love,” he said. “And then maybe next time we’ll just try something simple. Like a mocha, or a macchiato.”

The demon made a grumbling sound and buried his face in Aziraphale’s leg. He thought he deserved at least two hours of petting for the agony he was currently going through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Zeckarin for giving me a read through and a sanity check on this one!


	27. Prompt: Souvenirs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Souvenirs are stupid. They just are. 
> 
> Or, Crowley reveals something of his softer side to his love.

Humans and their constant need for knickknacks and souvenirs was something that had long puzzled and occasionally disgusted Crowley. He didn’t understand the instinct to crowd your surroundings with cheap little pieces of plastic that served only to remind you of something you were already going to remember fondly. Does looking at a snow globe really make you more nostalgic for your trip to the beach, he wondered. Does a shot glass emblazoned with a tacky lizard really take you back to Mexico? 

He thought not. 

He would never stoop so low. 

No, his souvenirs were entirely different. 

++

“When did you get this?” Aziraphale called from another room, on one of his rare visits to Crowley’s apartment in the days before Armageddon loomed. 

Crowley hurriedly finished with putting the groceries away and wandered out to see what the angel was looking at now, only to find him running a hand over the eagle statue he’d liberated from the church after it was bombed. The church with the Nazis, where he’d rescued Aziraphale and Aziraphale had, in turn, saved them from incineration. 

“Oh,” Crowley said. “Caught my eye when we were, you know – and I just decided that it would look nice in here.” 

Aziraphale looked at him, one eyebrow raised coolly. “You stole this from a church?” 

“No!” the demon said, a tad defensively. “I stole it from an exploded church. That’s entirely different.”

The angel, to his relief, laughed and didn’t press him any further, or question his explanations of why he had a piece of (formerly) consecrated statuary in his abode. 

++

Several years later, as Crowley moved into the bookshop, Aziraphale tried to be helpful and assist him with some of his unpacking. This quickly became problematic because the demon was almost as fussy with his belongings as the angel was, and trying to help quickly led to having orders barked at him, being handed a box and then screamed at to “no don’t touch that” or “for fuck’s sake, be careful with that angel, it’s old!” until Aziraphale finally sat back and quit.

“I think I’ll just watch, if that’s all right, my dear,” the angel said, leaning back in the armchair and whipping himself up a whiskey – no, better make that a double – and taking a deep, calming breath. 

“Perfect,” Crowley said. “Company is good. Helping is not.” 

Aziraphale rolled his eyes and sipped his drink. He wasn’t truly put out, though, because he enjoyed watching Crowley do almost anything, and he had to admit that a fascinating array of items were emerging from Crowley’s boxes. 

“What’s that?” he asked at one point, when Crowley pulled out a hunk of what looked like iron link chain. 

“Oh,” Crowley said, “that’s nothing.” He looked around for a small wooden chest he’d unpacked earlier and quickly crammed it inside, but not quickly enough to prevent the angel from catching a glimpse of a variety of odd-looking objects inside. 

“No, it’s not,” Aziraphale said, “what was that? It looked like chain.”

Crowley looked at him for a long beat. “Okay,” he said finally. “It’s a piece of chain.” 

“From where?”

“From the Bastille.”

Aziraphale sat up with interest. “You have a piece of the chains from the Bastille? Why?”

“Well –” the demon sputtered for a moment. “Because I’m a demon, aren’t I? Never know when you’re going to need chains. Might have to secure something. Always pays to be prepared.” 

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, but he could see the demon’s discomfort from where he was sitting, so he decided to gracefully let it go. 

++

It was nearly two years later when it came up again. Both demon and angel had gradually shed many of their secrets, learning to reveal themselves, slowly and carefully, to each other. Aziraphale supposed the process would never really stop, finding new layers, peeling back the surface just a little bit more. It was almost addictive, really, the sudden surprise of finding something new about oneself that your love wanted you to open up about, the shock of pain and fear (lessened over time) wondering if this was it – the one thing that the other would not be able to accept, the one thing they would turn away or laugh at. And then the wonderful warmth and glow of being accepted, continually and constantly accepted, just as you were. It was better than any kind of drug, it was scarier and more rewarding than the highest roller coaster. It was the best kind of falling. 

So when they decided to renovate the bedroom a little bit – expand the walls to make a little more space for a seating area, move Crowley’s big black wardrobe to a different wall, paint it dove gray – and the small wooden trunk appeared from its spot where it had been hidden in the corner behind the wardrobe, Aziraphale felt they’d progressed far enough that he could ask the question he’d wanted to ask at the start. 

“Love,” the angel said carefully, “can you tell me about that trunk?”

Crowley sat down on the bed and looked at the item in question. It was a small, black wooden travelling chest, the old kind that were designed to be strapped on the back of a carriage and were reasonably-sized enough that they could be carried by hand if needed. 

“I got it in Lisbon,” he replied evasively. “It’s old.”

Aziraphale gave him a look. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

Crowley took a deep breath and picked it up, placing it on the bed next to him. “Okay,” he said. “Come see.” 

Aziraphale walked over and sat down cross-legged across from the demon and smiled encouragingly. “Only what you want to show me, of course. But it seems like it’s important to you and I’d love to know more.”

“It’s things – things I’ve collected over the years,” the demon said. “Silly stuff, mostly.” 

Crowley opened the lid. Inside were a hodge-podge of items, none of which made any initial sense to the angel from his vantage point. 

The demon started with the chain segment, which was on top. “Already know about that one,” he said, laying it aside. 

The next thing he pulled out was a piece of charred wood, about the length of his hand. “This…” he cleared his throat, nervously, “this is from the fire, at Glastonbury, where I pulled you out at the last moment.”

Aziraphale blinked, utterly surprised. 

Crowley laid it carefully on the bed next to the chains. He pulled out a small bundle of red cloth and unwrapped it carefully, revealing an ivory-colored hunk. “This is a tooth from the big wolf that almost ate you in Germany in the 1100s.” 

Aziraphale reached out and touched it, curious. “I’d forgotten about that. You saved me, ran him through just as he was landing on top of me.”

“Yep.” Crowley refused to look up. He continued to finger through the contents of the box, trying to decide what to pull out next. He came up with an old-fashioned metal pomander, a small silver sphere full of holes, with what looked like an ancient crumble of herbs and flowers inside it. It was attached to a long slender chain. 

“This,” he said, “is from the fourteenth fucking century, when you got the plague.” 

“I didn’t get the plague,” Aziraphale admonished. 

“Oh, didn’t you?” Crowley said hotly. “Ran around helping and healing everyone until you were literally fainting on your feet left and right, drained all of your grace, then showed up at more door literally swaying and moaning about how you didn’t feel so good? You definitely got the plague. You just didn’t die because you weren’t human. But I had to nurse you back to health for almost two weeks, you fucking idiot.” 

Aziraphale fidgeted his hands; he had to admit his memory was rather fuzzy on that whole point, but the demon’s words had a ring of truth to them. It _sounded_ like exactly what he would have done. And there was a suspicious two week break in his memory of that time. 

“Still a sore point, then, is it?”

“Damn straight,” Crowley said. “Why do you think I hated the fourteenth century so damn much?” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. He reached out and took the pomander and took a sniff of it, then sneezed explosively. “Well that was foolish of me,” he said ruefully. 

Crowley grinned a little, but his eyes looked oddly vulnerable. 

“So, Crowley, my dear,” Aziraphale said softly. “Are you telling me that you’ve been saving something from each and every time you’ve rescued me? For all these years?” 

Crowley blushed. Watching a demon blush, Aziraphale had discovered, was an unmitigated pleasure. For all his swagger, Crowley was incredibly easily embarrassed, and he blushed beet red from his hairline down to his collar when he felt exposed. 

“Perhaps,” he finally mumbled. “Just, you know, something to remind me that you’re a bloody moron and I better keep an eye on you.” 

Aziraphale laughed softly, not fooled for one minute. “I don’t think that’s the reason,” he said.

“What do you know? You’re the angel who got the plague, for fuck’s sake.” 

Aziraphale smiled and leaned in to kiss the demon soundly. “Well thank you for showing me your souvenirs, love… it’s wonderful to see them!”

“For heav – for hell—for Satan’s sake, they are not souvenirs, angel!” the demon snapped. “Souvenirs are stupid, tacky little coasters and keychains made in china and weird hats that don’t fit anyone right. I do NOT collect souvenirs.”

“Of course not, my mistake,” the angel said soothingly. 

“These are my memories, that’s all.” 

“That’s good enough for me, dear.” 

Crowley snapped the box closed again. “All right, enough of that. Let’s get that wardrobe shifted, ok?” 

Aziraphale let himself be distracted, knowing full well that he was going to ask the demon to show him the rest of the box at the next possible opportunity. He had learned, through six millennia, to be quite patient in his pursuits. He knew he would get there eventually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet another subject I would like to explore later - what else is in the box? :) Perhaps we shall see in the future.


	28. Prompt: Wine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both the angel and the demon believe that they personally invented wine. A referee must be found.

“I created wine, you know,” Crowley said apropos of nothing one evening. His companion looked up sharply to see if he was joking, but he looked perfectly serious. 

Aziraphale allowed himself an undignified snort. “No, you didn’t.”

Crowley huffed. “I _did!_ I was in Armenia when they first started making it. Almost five thousand years ago. I was the one who noticed what was happening to people when they ate some spoiled grapes, and experimented a little, and we ended up creating the first wines.”

“I know that’s not true,” Aziraphale said primly, “because _I_ was there in Persia when they invented it. I helped!”

“I helped!” Crowley mocked, but in a friendly way. “What year was that?”

“Around the same date, I think,” Aziraphale said. “You know all the legends about the Persian girl who fell out of favor with the king and decided to commit suicide by eating a bunch of rotten grapes?Except they made her tipsy and fun to be around, so the king forgave her?” 

Crowley scrunched up his nose, maybe he’d heard that, he wasn’t sure. 

“Well that was me,” Aziraphale finished.

“YOU were the Persian princess?” Crowley laughed.

“No of course not,” Aziraphale said, irked. “I was _with_ her. And I tried a little taste of it myself, after watching her, and between the three of us we figured it out. They had a wine press built within the year.”

Crowley frowned. “Likely story. They probably got the idea from the Armenians.”

“Oh please, as if demons could be responsible for anything as lovely as wine,” Aziraphale said dismissively. 

Crowley wasn’t about to take that kind of prejudice lying down. He leapt up from his spot on the floor and stalked towards Aziraphale, looking heated. “Oh yes, because wine has just been such a lovely bringer of peace and tranquility to the world, hasn’t it, _angel_,” he snapped. “Hasn’t harmed anyone or sullied anyone’s brain or broken up any families or anything, has it? Just an angelic invention of peace and light.” 

Aziraphale sulked a little. He hated when Crowley called him “angel” in that tone – aggravated rather than gentle.

“Sorry,” he muttered, not really meaning it.

“Furthermore, whose side created guns?” Crowley said, more conversationally. 

Aziraphale gasped. “You know very well that was an accident, it was just an offshoot of creating fireworks! I was trying to make people happy with beautiful light shows!” 

Crowley hummed noncommittally and grabbed the bottle of the gorgeous white from southern Italy that they’d been drinking and refilling for hours, helping himself to another large glass. 

“Well who could we ask that would really know?” Aziraphale said finally. “Someone must know where wine really originated from.”

“Hrm,” Crowley said. “I suppose God does. But she’s not likely to take our call.”

“The Metatron?” Aziraphale mused. “I suppose he might be able to relay it along.” 

Crowley frowned again. “If you think for one second I’m going to let you use that summoning circle to ask a question about wine, you’re drunker than I thought.” 

Aziraphale shrugged and drained his glass. He was feeling a little tipsy, suddenly. “You’re right, of course you’re right. Do you think Adam knows?”

“Why would Adam know?” 

“Well he is the antichrist.”

“He’s also a child.” 

A few drinks later, though, two rather intoxicated beings decided to call him on Aziraphale’s ancient bakelite phone. It rang for several minutes before someone answered, sounding bleary and alarmed, and Aziraphale realized to his horror that it was nearly three in the morning. He did a long distance miracle to smooth over Adam’s parents’ memories, and to make it seem perfectly normal for them to get their now-thirteen year old son out of bed in the middle of the night to answer a call.

“’ello?” Adam said, moments later.

“Adam!” Crowley said. “It’s us. Do you know who us is?”

“Hello dear boy!” Aziraphale added, in the background.

“Uh, yes?” Adam said. “Why’re you calling in the middle of the night? What’s wrong? Is it the angels again?”

“Oh no, nothing’s wrong, everything is just fine. Tickety-whatsit, as the angel would say.” Crowley stopped for a moment to try to organize his thoughts. “Just had a query for you that we thought you might know something about, being, you know, who you are and all, not that you’re not a perfectly ordinary –”

“Crowley?” Adam said, sounding impatient.

“Yes?”

“Can you please pass the phone to Aziraphale? I’m too tired for this.”

Crowley frowned at the receiver, then passed it to the angel. “He wants to talk to you.” Aziraphale gave him a bit of a smirk and took it from him. 

Crowley listened to the one-sided conversation as best he could. 

“Why yes, dear, everything is fine – 

“No, the bookstore is just fine, no more incidents – 

“Yes, the Bentley is fine too –”

“No, we haven’t broken up –”

“Well yes, we were just wondering you see, do you, with your access to various realms of knowledge not available to the average human – 

“Yes of course I’ll get to the point – do you know where and when wine was first invented?” 

“Yes, I’m aware of the time –”

“Well young man, that is a very rude word no matter who you are –”

Aziraphale pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it for a moment and then sheepishly placed it back on the receiver. 

“He hung up?” Crowley asked. 

“He called me a tosser, and then he hung up.” 

Crowley grinned. “Oh well. Guess that means I’m right, then.”

“How on earth does that mean you’re right?” 

Crowley helped himself to another glass and sat back on the couch with a contented sigh. There was nothing in the world as fun as bickering with Aziraphale. With any luck he could keep this one going for another few hours without working too hard at it. And then when he had the angel good and worked up, he could help him redirect all that dormant smiting energy into something much more enjoyable. 

It was looking to be a rather fine evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I struggled with this one for a while because what story with these two ever DOESN'T include the concept of wine? But then this came to me in a flash. :) Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> Only a few more!


	29. Prompt: Waking Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the early days of their cohabitation, Aziraphale makes use of the scientific method to learn more about his new love. If only he could use his powers for good instead of mischief.  
.  
.

One thing Aziraphale learned early on in his new relationship was that waking up one’s part-serpent, mostly-demon boyfriend could be rather a challenge. Both snakes and demons are fond of unconsciousness, sinking into the darkness of sleep with an enthusiasm bordering on mania. Both are rather likely to sleep through an earthquake, house fire, or impending alien attack unless drastic measures are taken to wake them. This was all well and good, the angel thought, except that it drastically cut in on one's opportunity for cozy breakfasts out and sharing coffee in the morning with one's handsome new love. Something, indeed, needed to be done about this.

So Aziraphale, ever fond of the scientific method and of writing observations down in tiny lab notebooks, took to experimenting to see what did and didn’t work. 

++

_Day one,_ Aziraphale wrote one morning while observing the tangled lump that was his love underneath at least four different blankets. 

_Today’s experimental method: Will attempt to awake the subject with snuggling._

Aziraphale eased himself gently into bed and inserted himself under some portion of the covers, pulling Crowley close to him. The demon responded delightfully, curling up into the angel’s arms with a happy sigh and nuzzling into his shoulder. Aziraphale murmured sweet nothings, petted him happily, and gently suggested he get up. 

Crowley did not get up, and even worse, he managed to pin down Aziraphale in the process of falling back asleep.

_Experimental result: unsuccessful. Subject responded happily to snuggling but did not awaken and in fact appeared to be deeper asleep than before at conclusion of exercise._

++

_Day two_ Aziraphale wrote. _Today’s method: will attempt to awaken subject via gentle shaking._

He thought for a moment, then went back and crossed out the word “gentle.”

Crowley made muffled groan sounds when Aziraphale started poking him in the side, which proceeded to slurred words that sounded like swear words when Aziraphale lightly shook his shoulders. 

Aziraphale, continuing to experiment by changing the variable, grabbed the demon by both shoulders and shook rather hard. 

Crowley sat up fast, eyes wide. 

“What?” he shouted. “What’s wrong? What is it?”

Aziraphale blushed. “Oh, sorry my dear – it’s nothing, it’s just – well breakfast is ready, and I didn’t want you to miss it.” 

Crowley eyed him for a moment but did eventually get up. 

_Experimental result: successful but with unexpected consequences. The subject was highly alarmed. Recommend against._

++

_Day three,_ Aziraphale wrote. _Today’s method: multiple alarms._

This one took some doing. First Aziraphale set some light music to go off on his phone, with no discernable results. Next he modified the existing bedside clock to go off with a rousing beeping noise, which he was certain would work – until Crowley simply snaked a hand out from under the covers, pounded the clock with his fist until it smashed into pieces, and then continued sleeping. 

Aziraphale frowned, trying to think of the next logical escalation on the alarm front, and was hit with a stroke of genius. He had to clear a little floor space, but once he made room he concentrated for a moment and miracled the big grandfather clock up from the back of his office and set the hour chime to go off in two minutes. 

BONG!!! BONG!!!! 

Crowley leapt so high that all of the covers ended up on the floor. 

BONG!!! BONG!!! BONG!!! BONG!!!

He looked around panicked with the whites of his eyes showing until they finally settled on the grandfather clock. He looked uncomprehendingly at the clock, then narrowed his eyes and looked at Aziraphale, who at least had the grace to look sheepish. 

“ANGEL, what in the ever living FUCK are you doing?” Crowley bit out. 

“I’m so sorry dear,” the angel said, “I was just thinking about moving it up here… I didn’t realize how loud that was going to be.” 

“Put it back!”

“I will, I will,” Aziraphale assured him. “However, since you’re up, would you like to go out for breakfast?”

The demon agreed, but he was sulky through the entire meal. 

_Experimental result: phones and alarm clocks unsuccessful. Grandfather clock extremely successful. Save for emergencies._

++

_Day four,_ Aziraphale wrote. _Today’s method: tickling._

Aziraphale had his doubts about this one, but it was on all the lists he had looked up for awakening techniques, so he thought he should give it a fair try. He began by climbing into the bed with Crowley and repeating the snuggling experiment, getting the demon to cuddle up with him in a nice, warm, happy lump. Then, though, instead of petting him, he began running his fingers lightly up and down his ribs, slow at first and then faster. 

The demon twitched a little and batted his hands away at first, but as Aziraphale became more insistent he rolled over and tried to bury himself in the duvet so that no hands could get through. Nothing, however, could stop the angel, who soon found his way to a very vulnerable spot and dug in for a real tickle. 

Crowley, still mostly asleep, thrashed wildly and caught the angel with an elbow to the nose. 

“ARGH!! My nose! Crowley!” Aziraphale shouted, holding his nose and tipping his head back to stop the flow of blood. 

“Oh shit, angel, I’m so sorry!” Crowley said, completely awake and looking horrified. “What happened? How did I hit you?” He dug around for a tissue and handed it to the angel, who took it gratefully. 

Aziraphale waved a hand over his nose and put everything back where it belonged, stopping the bleeding as he did, and smiled weakly at the demon. “No, it’s my fault. I was tickling you.”

“Why? Why would you do that when I’m sleeping?”

“Just felt like touching you,” Aziraphale said sweetly. “Plus it’s nine thirty in the morning! Want to take me out to breakfast to make up for breaking my nose?”

Crowley supposed he couldn’t argue with that one. 

_Experimental result: avoid at all costs. Bodily harm likely. _

++

_Day five,_ Aziraphale wrote. _Today’s method: water._

He felt like he had to at least give Crowley a chance before he resorted to this one, so he took a moment to try to wake him in a more genteel manner. 

“Crowley dear,” Aziraphale said. “It’s ten a.m., please get up – I want to take you out for scones.” 

“Ngkrlpfh”, came the mumbled response from under the blankets, which then ceased to move as snoring re-emerged from beneath them.

“I tried,” Aziraphale sighed, before pulling the top of the comforter down until he could see part of Crowley’s face and one ear. He picked up the glass of water and dipped a finger in, then held it up above the demon until one small drop slowly rolled down and off and landed on the demon’s cheek. 

Crowley twitched a little bit didn’t seem to notice. 

Aziraphale, ever the scientist, decided to repeat the stimuli and see what happened. 

Another drop. The demon huffed and turned over, turning his back and shoulder to Aziraphale and exposing the other ear. 

Hrm. 

Aziraphale put a bit more water on his finger this time and held it directly over the demon’s ear. 

_drip drip drip_

Crowley pawed at his ear and rolled over with an alarming frown on his face. 

“What are you doing, angel?” he growled. 

“Um, waking you up?”

“By dropping water into my ear?”

The angel blushed. “I suppose so, yes?”

Crowley gave him a look of the utmost exasperation. “Is there any particular reason you’ve been harassing me every single morning this week, angel?”

The angel thought for a minute. “Science?” he said weakly. 

Crowley stared at him for a long beat, then pushed himself up to a sitting position. “I’m thirsty,” he said, holding out his hand.

Aziraphale cooperatively gave him the glass, only to find its contents immediately thrown in his face. He sputtered and wiped his eyes with a corner of the bedsheets as he heard Crowley stomp around the room collecting his robe and stomp his way down the stairs. 

The angel took a moment to dry off in the bathroom, don a dry shirt, and comb out his wet hair before heading downstairs to find his love. He found him, sitting at the kitchen table, a large cappuccino in front of him, and a distinctly unfriendly expression on his face. In front of him he had the angel’s little black notebook where he’d been recording results. 

“Experimenting, are we?” Crowley said. 

“Well, you can't beat the scientific method,” Aziraphale said, reasonably. “And you're quite hard to wake up! Plus I read an article –”

“Oooooh, you read an _article_,” Crowley said. “Remind me to disconnect your browser right after this, please.”

“—about cute ways to wake someone up and I decided to see what worked best.”

Crowley blinked. “There is nothing cute about waking up to a bloody grandfather clock two feet from your head, or waking up to find your lover bleeding beside you because he decided to tickle you, or to having WATER DROPPED ON YOUR HEAD WHILE YOU’RE SLEEPING, angel.” He stopped and tried to collect himself. “Who writes this nonsense anyways?”

Aziraphale straightened his cuffs. “Someone called Mr. Buzzfeed, apparently…”

Crowley barked out a laugh. “Angel, I love you but you are such a dork sometimes.”

Aziraphale frowned but didn’t know what to say to that.

“Why can’t you just let me sleep?” he said more gently. “I like sleeping. No, I love sleeping. Why do I have to get up bright and early just because you do?”

The angel thought about it for a minute. “You don’t,” he said finally, “but sometimes I want to do something with you in the morning. Like breakfast, or go see the birds in the park, or something. And you’re missing all of that. Plus I don't sleep as much as you do and you're already asleep the whole night, but to sleep the whole morning away too? I miss you...” 

Aziraphale took just a moment to let the embarrassment of that statement sink fully in. Good heavens, he thought. What is happening to me?

Crowley sighed. “I’m not going to change all of my sleeping habits just because we live together now, angel, that’s not fair.” He looked over at the angel who was now clearly feeling guilty, and his heart melted a little. “But if you want me to do something in the morning, just tell me, okay?”

“What, like the night before?”

“Yes, why not?”

Aziraphale realized he had never even considered that option. It’s possible, he thought, that I actually am a dork. Who would have imagined? 

“I’ll get up for you sometimes, and you let me sleep sometimes, okay?” Crowley said. “We each give a little. And absolutely no one gets soaked or gets their nose broken. Deal?” 

The demon held out a hand to shake.

Aziraphale, not impressed with that method of closing a deal, moved over to drop down and kiss the demon, instead. “Deal,” he said, letting out a little pleased yelp as Crowley pulled him down into his lap. 

“Now let’s talk about how I’m going to pay you back for all of these experiments,” Crowley said, a glint in his eye. “Let’s start by figuring out where you’re ticklish, then we’ll move on to dropping a pot of water on _your_ head, shall we?”


	30. Prompt: Costumes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley struggle to find a couples Halloween costume they can both live with, and end up surprising even themselves with what they choose.  
.  
.

“Crowley, look, we’ve been invited to a costume party!” Aziraphale said, his voice rising in excitement. “Oh I do love Halloween!” 

Crowley frowns. “Well I don’t. Demons hate Halloween. Haven’t we talked about this already?” 

“I know, I know,” Aziraphale says, considering his best moves in this situation. “And if you don’t want to go, we don’t have to. But – you like spooky! You _really_ like spooky. And you like misbehavior, right? Few places are as rife with chances for misbehavior as a costume party! You just think it over a little bit…”

And with that he sat back and buried himself in his book, while secretly watching Crowley’s face. 

Crowley did give it some thought. He remembered how much of a good time he used to have at masked balls in eighteenth century France, for one. Somehow people thought that just by putting a lacy mask across a tiny portion of their face, they were completely unrecognizable and all the normal social mores no longer applied to them. It was like ground zero for the temptation trade; people were up for almost anything when they found themselves in costume. 

Plus there was the fact that Aziraphale clearly wanted to go. He did try, generally, to let the angel have what he wanted, at least when what he wanted wasn’t likely to burn anything to the ground.

“Whose party is it?” he asked. 

“Oh, one of the charities I donate to. Rented a hall up in Primrose Hill and is having a big swanky party on Halloween night.” 

Crowley drummed his fingers on the edge of the couch. “Okay,” he said finally, “I could probably go. But I’m not wearing anything stupid, so don’t get any big ideas about us being dogs or flowers or anything like that.”

Aziraphale beamed at him and was clearly not trying to bounce. “Oh no, of course not, my dear! I’ll find us something just perfect, don’t you worry.” 

Crowley felt a small seed of worry begin to take hold. “You have to run it by me before you purchase anything, angel. Seriously. Don’t do your usual on this one, okay?”

Aziraphale laughed. “All right, all right. I’ll gather some options for you tonight, just have to do some research first.”

++

They went out for sushi that night, and Aziraphale waited until Crowley had a couple of cups of sake and a few nigiri in him before he broached the subject again. 

“So,” he said warmly, “I have a few thoughts on possible couple costumes for us.” 

“Couple costumes?” Crowley said. “Why do we have to do that?”

Aziraphale looked a little hurt. “You don’t _want_ to do a couples costume? I mean… we are a couple after all…”

Crowley rolled his eyes, but only a little. This was neither the battle nor the hill he wanted to go down on, no question. He raised a hand in defeat. “Okay, angel, I’m sorry – of course we can do a couples costume. It’ll be –” he squinted and made a face like he’d tasted a bitter lemon “—fun.” 

Aziraphale took a swig of his sake and looked at Crowley consideringly. Should he start with the easy ones to reject, or with the best ones? He wasn’t sure. 

“Well?” Crowley said. “Lay ‘em on me. Don’t leave me hanging.”

“All right,” Aziraphale said, pulling out a small notebook that looked suspiciously similar to the sleep experiment notebook. “First up would be your classic superhero/sidekick combination. Something like, perhaps, Batman and Robin. I, of course, would be Batman, and you would be… well –”

“Could be fun, but I’m not going as Robin, angel. And why would you be Batman? I’m more his type.”

“I could be dark and brooding!” Aziraphale insisted. 

“You’re not the type. You’d be better off wearing those ridiculous green booties and the tights,” Crowley said. “You’d look great!” 

Aziraphale gave him a long, slow stare, then deliberately took out a small pen and crossed that one off the list. 

“Next there are a variety of historical options. Henry VIII and Anne Bolyn?”

Crowley grinned. “Henry II and Thomas Becket would be a lot more fun. We could spend the whole evening trying to smite each other.”

Aziraphale sighed and crossed that one off. “You could be a white rose and I could be a red rose and we could be the war of the roses?” he said hopefully. 

“Angel,” Crowley said, distinctly and clearly. “I thought I said no flowers. Did I not say no flowers?”

“Yes, of course.” Aziraphale made another note. “How about Romeo and Juliet?” 

“You’re Juliet,” the demon countered quickly. “And only if we can play out the death scene.”

“You’re ridiculous,” the angel said. “Okay, how about Punch and Judy?” 

“Would one of us get to hit the other with a large board?”

“Why,” the angel asked in despair, “are you so violent tonight?”

Crowley shrugged and stuffed another nigiri in his mouth. Aziraphale retaliated by gather most of the remaining salmon pieces onto his plate.

They went through many more entries on the list, Crowley mocking or adjusting each of them as needed, until they were left with very few options. 

“Well perhaps we should go to a costume shop and look around,” Aziraphale said finally, in defeat. 

“I’m game for that,” Crowley said. “We’ll go tomorrow.” 

++

The next day they went to an obscure historical costume shop in the theater district to look at possible outfits. Aziraphale tried to be on his nicest behavior, charming the proprietor, because he suspected Crowley was going to be quite a handful. As usual, he was correct in this assessment. 

“What are you gentleman looking for?” the man asked them. 

“Something amusing, I suppose,” Aziraphale said, “possibly historical or liter –”

“Nothing stupid,” Crowley cut in, “and no flowers. Something cool.” 

The proprietor blinked, taking this in, and set off to see what he could find. He brought out a rack full of options a few minutes later and took them off in pairs to show them. Kings and princes, Hamlet and Ophelia, jokers and jesters, Romans, Egyptians, Medusa and Perseus (“I like the snakes on that one!” Crowley said), Vikings and gladiators – somehow nothing really caught their fancy. 

“Well what might you be interested in?” the proprietor asked, nearing the end of his patience. 

“Got any serial killers?” Crowley asked. “Or how about rock stars. Got any Sex Pistols? Sid and Nancy?”

Aziraphale sighed quietly. 

++

“I think we made a good choice!” Crowley said brightly on the way home. “That was a brilliant last minute save that man made, there. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it myself!”

“It’s certainly unusual,” Aziraphale said. “I’m not sure how I feel about wearing that, to be honest.”

“Oh, come on, angel, it’s not that bad,” Crowley cajoled. “Wear it for me?”

Aziraphale huffed. “Whose idea was this whole party thing? I’m not at all sure we should even be going.”

Crowley reached over and took his hand without comment. 

++

One week later, the night of the party arrived. 

Crowley grinned at Aziraphale after dinner. “Are you ready for this?” he asked. 

“Oh, dear, I don’t know –” Aziraphale said. “You’re going to have to help me with the spray paint, yes?” 

“Angel, you don’t have to spray-paint yourself,” Crowley pointed out. “You’re an ethereal being with powers. Just do it!” 

“That’s true,” Aziraphale said doubtfully. “I still think I’m going to look ridiculous.”

“You’re going to look hot, angel.” Crowley said, closing that conversation. “Now come on, let’s get changed.”

Crowley had a very easy time of it, slipping into his outfit easily and excitedly. He actually couldn’t believe he’d given the angel such a hard time about this – he was truly rather excited about this one. Aziraphale, however, was locked away in his closet making fussy noises as he tried to work out his half. 

“You ok in there, angel?” Crowley called.

“Just fine! Out in a moment,” the angel called back. 

Crowley wandered downstairs and carefully made himself a martini while he waited. Finally, after having time to slowly sip half of it, he heard Aziraphale making his way downstairs. He turned around and gasped at the vision before him. 

Aziraphale was clad head to toe in a tight gold dress that clung to his form, and his skin was covered everywhere with a thick layer of gold to which he’d added just a bit of angelic glow so that he looked radiant on all surfaces. His hair had been smoothed out of its usual curl a bit and swooped down over his forehead, and if Crowley wasn’t mistaken he’d modified his corporation a bit to be a little more female-shaped – it nipped in a bit more at the waist and flared out becomingly below. 

Goldfinger, Crowley thought. I knew there was a reason that movie was one of my favorites.

“Why do you get to be Bond and I have to be the Bond girl again?” the angel asked plaintively. 

“Because! I’ve got the bullet marks in my car. Plus, I never get to wear a tuxedo,” Crowley said. “Besides, you kind of like it, admit it.”

“Of course I like it, you look amazing,” Aziraphale said, sincerely. 

“I meant, you kind of like what _you’re_ wearing.” Crowley grinned. “Don’t you? Just a little tiny bit?”

Aziraphale flapped a hand and tried to stifle a returning grin. “Oh stop. I suppose I do look better in gold than you do,” he said, preening a little. “And the skin tone is sort of fun. Haven’t dressed as a lady in quite some time!” 

Crowley sauntered over and kissed him. “You look delectable, Ms. Galore. You’re going to be the hit of the party.” 

The demon offered his arm most dashingly and Aziraphale took it, casting one last look in the mirror as they headed out. _The things you do for love_, he thought, casting a glance at his devastatingly handsome date in his well-cut tuxedo. He took a moment to make the heels he was wearing just the tiniest bit taller and magically more comfortable, and then straightened up.

He tossed his hair back and tried to assemble the best Bond-girl attitude he could manage. He hadn’t even shown Crowley yet the pretend pistol he’d strapped to his thigh. He’d save that for later, when they were dancing. He was certain that detail would bring the evening to a rather pleasant resolution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My actual prompt for today was Pumpkins, but since I already wrote that one nearly to death in the one about candles and jackolanterns, I decided to change it up and use this. 
> 
> I realized part way through my evening that of course Crowley had to be dressed as James Bond - what else was he going to choose? Which of course meant Aziraphale would be a Bond girl. And Goldfinger is just the most iconic image of one of the Bond girls ever, plus it was the movie my parents saw on their first (blind) date, so it seemed like an obvious choice. Even if Aziraphale refused to wear the more traditional bikini the role would usually comprise of.


	31. Prompt: Flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both angels and demons can let their feelings overflow sometimes.

Angels sow good will in the world and demons sow discontent, or so the established sources would have you believe. However, as in all things ethereal, the reality is somewhat different. The fact is that both creatures, angels and demons, spread their emotional and spiritual energy out into the world, whatever those energies might be. A happy, content angel spreads seeds of love, joy, and contentment out around him or her in waves, and a happy, contented demon (if such a thing ever existed) can easily do the same, although to a less effective degree. Equally, an irate, grumpy, discontented demon causes waves of discord to appear in the world around them, and an upset angel can do a scaled-down version of the same, unless they are carefully shielding against it. 

Which is why, Crowley thought, he was constantly finding himself in this annoying situation – he’d be somewhere nice with his angel, maybe lazing around in the park on a blanket or sitting under a tree, having a lovely time – and suddenly they were surrounded by a field of daisies that didn’t exist before, or large pink blossoms would be dripping off the tree above them and landing in their drinks. 

“Sorry,” Aziraphale would say with a sheepish grin, picking a flower out of the demon’s wine glass. “I forgot to hold it in again.” 

And what could Crowley say to that? Couldn’t exactly be mad at someone for being so happy with your presence that they made the whole freaking world bloom, could you? 

No, you couldn’t. 

Besides, he had his own effect on the world around him when he was feeling especially contented. After a great day with Aziraphale he had a bad habit of unintentionally turning stop lights to green and ensuring that people got their tax returns on time instead of late, and of burning random people’s parking tickets to a crisp and deleting them from official record without even consciously thinking about it. It was quite mortifying, really, to find oneself subconsciously doing good deeds. He didn’t really think Aziraphale was aware of it, which was his only saving grace. He didn’t think he could handle the embarrassment if the angel ever found out. 

++

Even more annoying than his effect on the outside world, happy Aziraphale had a way of infecting his houseplants with his enthusiasm, particularly after they’d had a romantic evening at home. Without fail, the next morning, Crowley would drag himself awake and go perform his morning plant inspection, looking for spots or droop or wilt, and find at least two of his definitely non-flowering plants covered in blossoms. 

It was all well and good out in the park, but when it was one’s own carefully tended plants, it got rather bothersome. 

So it was not a particular surprise when the morning after their two year anniversary, Crowley rolled out of bed and sniffed the air suspiciously for any hint of floral scent or pollen. He had the sensitive nose of a serpent, after all, and could pick these things up from some distance away. 

They’d had a wonderful night. It was likely their last anniversary as a dating couple rather than married people, so they’d gone all out – dinner at the Ritz dressed up in their nicest suits, then a walk along the Thames, followed by the very rare opportunity to take a night flight using their wings, which ended up with them hovering on top of Westminster Cathedral and swooping down across Parliament in sheer abandon. Then, breathless and giddy from their acrobatics, they came home and just fell into each other for a glorious end to the night in each other’s arms. Crowley tried to express his love in every form he knew, over the course of that evening – in words, in touch, in kisses, in fun, in indulging his angel, in holding him close. It was romantic and lovely, and he had to admit he woke with a bit of a smile on his face. 

Crowley sniffed again and sure enough, he could smell the flowers from here. He couldn’t wait to see which of his plants had been corrupted this time. 

He tied on his ornate silk robe and padded down the stairs to investigate. 

Aziraphale was waiting at the bottom of the stairs with a large, steaming cappuccino and an extremely sheepish look on his face. 

“Now dear, before you step out of the back room, please keep in mind that I didn’t do this on purpose,” he said, thrusting the cup into the demon’s hands and smiling at him most urgently. “Please don’t be mad?” 

Crowley groaned. “Oh no. What have you done now, angel?” 

The angel continued to block his way. 

Crowley stepped to the right.

Aziraphale stepped to the right.

Crowley stepped to the left.

Aziraphale stepped to the left. 

“Oh for the sake of –” Crowley said. “Move.” 

The angel let him pass, and Crowley came out through the back room and through the stacks towards the office – where he was met by the most absurd profusion of bloom he’d ever seen. 

Every plant in the shop had burst into technicolor flower, blooming with huge, blowsy buds that were not in any way native to their species. Several of his plants had sprouted vines which were winding across nearly every bookshelf and winding up into the oculus, all dripping with blossoms. Blossoms which, definitively Did. Not. Belong. There. 

Crowley stood in the middle of the central hub and turned in a slow circle, gobsmacked. He didn’t even know what emotion one should summon in response to this… this absurd inflorescence. 

Aziraphale came up beside him, chuckling nervously. “I – well – hrm,” he said. “That’s a bit bigger than the usual, isn’t it?” 

Crowley turned and looked at him. “Yeah, you could say that,” he said, dryly. 

Aziraphale gave him an imploring look. “I’m sure we can prune everything back to normal.” 

The demon sighed and put an arm around his love. “I’m not upset at you, angel,” he said softly. “You were so happy and in love last night that you filled the entire shop with flowers. How could I be mad about that?” 

Aziraphale’s cheeks dimpled and he gave Crowley his most wobbly, beatific smile. “Oh, thank you, my dear. I would so hate to upset you after such a lovely night.” 

“I’m flattered, if anything,” Crowley said, giving him a kiss on the temple. “I’m glad I make you so happy.” 

“You do!” the angel said. “Plus, you know, you do a bit of this too.”

Crowley froze. “I do what?”

“Spread good will in the world when you’re especially happy.”

Crowley peered at the angel. “I do not! Take that back!”

Aziraphale smiled lovingly. “It’s nothing anyone else would notice, my dear – it’s just little things. Really, nothing to be embarrassed about.” 

The demon frowned and thought _he_ would be the judge of that, thankyouverymuch. “What kinds of things are you talking about?”

Aziraphale thought for a moment. “Well, for example today, all of my clothes were extra-freshly pressed when I went to get dressed even though I know I left them crumped on the chair. And all the papers on my desk are beautifully stacked and organized just the way I liked. And I swear, the tea tastes especially good on mornings after we’ve had a nice evening.” 

Crowley groaned. “You make flowers appear in the world and I do a little secretarial work for you when I’m happy? Angel that’s completely pathetic!”

The angel laughed softly. “No, love, it isn’t. You do things for me that make things just the way I like them, without even thinking about it. Your energy just flows around the shop making everything nice for me.” He gave the demon’s hand a squeeze. “I’ve known about it for a while, my dear.” 

Crowley flopped down on the couch and tried to die of shame. He tried hard. “I’m a terrible demon,” he moaned. 

“No, you aren’t,” Aziraphale said, sitting down next to him. “You’re just a really excellent fiancé.” 

“Oh, good lord,” Crowley said, “kill me now.” 

But he was smiling, the angel thought, so that was all right. 

Crowley snapped his fingers and a couple of pruning sheers appeared in his hand. “Just because we’ve established that I’m an utter sap doesn’t mean you’re not helping me clean some of this up, though,” he said, handing a pair to the angel. “And no magicking the plants back to normal, it’s not good for them.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Of course, of course!”

“And no telling them how beautiful they are,” he admonished. “Don’t go around undoing all of my hard work or you will be in trouble.” 

The angel smiled and nodded. He set to work, softly humming as he filled vase after vase with the miscreant blooms. And if he whispered a few sweet nothings to each plant he touched, what of it? He didn’t see anything wrong with sharing a little of his good mood. The plants would keep his interference a secret, he knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today was a free day on the official prompt list, so I'm using another prompt from the lovely Zeckarin. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for your comments on this incredibly long set of ficlets! I'm so happy you've been enjoying them! I clearly double posted somewhere, as I've hit 31 the day before Halloween, so if I can, I might write one more tomorrow just to complete the exercise of doing one a day all month. That said though, my brain is very tired from all of this (33K words! and the word doc it all lives in is now 83 pages! in 30 days!) so this might be the end of flufftober. I've had a blast writing these! 
> 
> I'm going to take a short break and then get back to the main story, and back to Frederick, and get these two going on planning their wedding. :)

**Author's Note:**

> Visit me on Tumblr at <http://ineffably-good.tumblr.com>


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